


Peculiarly, Perpendicularly

by auspicium (latenightfangirl)



Series: In Asking Riddles That Have No Answers [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Arthurian, Background Relationships, Because they're adorable, Character Development, Culture, Dark Creatures, Dark Harry Potter, Emotional Manipulation, F/F, F/M, Female Harry Potter, Harry Potter is a Horcrux, Harry is Lord Potter, Harry is a Little Shit, Headcanons left and right, Hogwarts First Year, Hufflepuff Neville Longbottom, Independent Harry Potter, Inferi, Lethifolds - Freeform, M/M, Manipulation, Multi, Mythology - Freeform, Necromancer Harry Potter, Necromancy, Paganism, Parselmouth Harry Potter, Parseltongue, Politics, Powerful Harry, Rare Pairings, Ravenclaw Draco Malfoy, Slytherin Harry, Slytherin Harry Potter, Snakes, but not under its influence, headcanons, ill tag more later, manx culture, probably, sort of, technically lady potter but whatever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-11-28 14:54:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11420325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/latenightfangirl/pseuds/auspicium
Summary: “If I had a world of my own, everything would be nonsense. Nothing would be what it is, because everything would be what it isn't. And contrary wise, what is, it wouldn't be. And what it wouldn't be, it would. You see?”― Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland & Through the Looking-GlassHenrietta Potter is keeping secrets. Albus is determined to unravel them all, even if he suspects some to beEn Prise. Why else might one leave a piece unguarded in this game of Attack and Discovery?





	1. Dice with Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The games begin.  
> (Haven’t they already?)

Albus reclined into his chair, waving a hand for Severus to sit. “And what news do you have?” he asked, rubbing his chin lightly. “It has come to my attention that Euclid has been gone some time now. Not unusual for her, but I believe this has been one of her longest disappearing acts.”

Severus nodded. “Approaching four weeks. The last instance was just under three, making this the longest so far. Euclid opened Hidden Elements just three days ago, and it only lasted a day. I was – as you are aware – leading a search party in Wales at the time and could not attend.”

“And what did you hear of it?”

“That Euclid was as tightlipped as ever. They refused to confirm whether or not they had been in New Zealand, as had been rumored. Apparently, they were selling Nundu larynxes this time around.” Severus’ features pinched. “I doubt they will be again for some time.”

“A missed opportunity,” he agreed. “Euclid is certainly ambitious, however. She never ceases to amaze me with what she can procure. Why, a good many of her products now consist mostly of XXXX and the odd XXXXX creature, now, do they not?” Albus smoothed his beard as he mused.

“For Hidden Elements, yes,” said Severus. “The remaining Euclid’s Elements continue to sell the highest quality supplies; however, none are comparable to the rarities which are sold at Hidden Elements.” The Diagon Alley establishment had shut down after about two years, the time during which Euclid went from renowned to legendary. Only a small number of Euclid’s Elements remained – there was still the Knockturn Alley store and another which was part of a prominent German market known for its Dark reputation.

Euclid was something of a god in their trade. Apothecaries and potions supply stores all knew of Euclid, and spoke of them with awe. Their products were at the top of the hierarchy – Euclid’s Elements was the paragon of magical retail. They had appeared out of the blue, climbed the metaphorical ladder of business politics, and took the highest position all within a matter of years.

The mystery behind their business only added to the legendary quality of Euclid’s Elements. The unknown identity of Euclid, the suddenness of their appearance, the Marionettes that still had yet to be unpuzzled – it left a distinct aura of inexplicableness that only served to endear the public to it all the more.

“Rarities, indeed,” replied Albus, toying with a silver trinket. It was broken, no longer working as it should, and yet he still held hope for it. “Acromantula pincers, dragon’s blood, werewolf pelts, and now Nundu larynxes,” he said, a small, not very nice, smile playing at his lips. “Where do you think she gets the ideas for some of the – admittedly creative – goods she sells? Who willingly seeks out werewolves to skin, and Acromantula to de-fang?”

“Reckless, thrill seeking idiots,” said Severus, mockingly. “Highly ambitious, ruthless business owners. Not to mention resourceful,” he snorted. “Euclid isn’t one to be taken lightly.”

“Indeed, she isn’t,” Albus said, and Severus sent him a withering look. “I am certain that she is, in fact, a she, Severus,” he said, faintly amused. “I have my reasons to believe so. Haven’t you heard the rumors? Many are of the same opinion,” said Albus, knowing his words were irking the potion’s master.

“Rumored, purported, assumed,” he waved off. “Nothing substantial.”

“Ah, ah, but weren’t you the one who said, when involving Euclid, rumors typically rung true?” Severus grimaced at the rebuttal of his own words.

“Yes, however, this is another matter altogether.”

“Is it?” asked Albus, once again fiddling with the contraption in his hands. What was once the last of his hope, that.

“It is,” said Severus. “I haven’t a clue why you still believe as much. They haven’t given even the slightest inclination towards which gender they might – for perhaps they don’t have one – be. I am still suspicious that Euclid might not be human.” He brought his cup to his mouth, sipping the freshly brewed tea. “Their Marionettes certainly aren’t.”

“No,” said Albus, concern pinching his brows. “No, I don’t think they are.” He shook his head, then, stowing away the silver trinket. “Has there been any headway in the searches?” Severus shook his head. Sighing, Albus responded, “I expected as much.”

“Albus,” said Severus, setting his tea down. “When are you planning to let matter go? Henrietta Potter has been missing without sighting for almost three years now – do you not think it is time to call it off?”

“Her eleventh birthday is almost upon us,” he said. “A little while longer will not do any harm.”

“Surely, you’re not planning to depend on her Hogwarts’ letter to find her,” said Severus. “You know – more so than any other – the limits of the magical tracker applied to them. If Potter is not within the designated range – that being the United Kingdom and Ireland – then she will not receive her letter. And it’s already been made apparent that owls will not trace her location.”

“I have a suspicion,” began Albus, “That something will occur soon – what, I am not sure, but I feel as though it will be important.”

“We cannot rely just upon your intuition, Albus,” Severus told him, worn. “Henrietta Potter is missing and the wizarding world still has yet to find out. It would be best if they never found out. That, however, is impossible – unless she is found before the start of term, which is highly unlikely.”

“Hope, my boy, can turn the tide.” Albus smiled conspiratorially. “Fate works in mysterious ways, and I do suspect that that will be made known soon enough. Now, would you care for a sherbet lemon?” They were his favorite, after all.

* * *

It was an afternoon amongst the Headmaster of Hogwarts’ office that Albus drifted to and fro, across and about. He studied the broken, silver trinket contemplatively, and then left it for his pensieve. He inspected memories, one after the other, and then with another weary sigh put them all back from whence they came. A stack of parchment lay unrolled across his desk, each pertaining to something dissimilar, which he looked to.

One dealt with the 1986-87 quarry of the Wales’ representatives and British Magical Ministry. It detailed the cause, societal affect, and the conclusion. Minister Bagnold had followed Albus’ advice and gave a statement of apology, easing the rising tension, and then offered a truce on the creature affair. It ended with Wales’ continued state as an ally.

The Isle of Man had been a different story. Another parchment told of its results: after sustained societal anarchy towards the British magical community, it had been decided that the Isle of Man would no longer continue dealings with Britain. All (magical) ties would be cut, and they would only stay neutral if given full freedom from the British Ministry. There hadn’t much other choice besides giving in at the time, and the Isle of Man had officially dissolved from Britain’s alliance.  

The next parchment was a listing of the Isle of Man’s inhabitants, something Albus shouldn’t have been able to acquire. The Isle of Man’s government was especially wary of the British ministry in recent years, and matters between the two were still tense. Despite this, Albus had obtained this catalogue of residencies.

Atop of each these, a scroll ran across, displaying a map of magical communities. Spots were marked and noted, and beneath it, copied in Albus’ handwriting, was an older, outdated inventory of Euclid’s Elements.

An emerald fire roared in the fireplace, catching Albus’ attention. Within the flames, Minerva’s head became apparent. “Albus?” she called, then, upon spotting him, said, “Another set of letters have arrived; you know the ones.” A grimace, then, “And have you heard the news?”

“What might that be?” he asked, head tilting forward.

Minerva pursed her lips. “Cornelius decided to open affairs with the Isle of Man once again.” Albus startled, unexpecting of such a development. “And from what I’ve heard, it didn’t go particularly well. It seems that in recent years a number of more questionable laws have been laid down, and even more repealed within their government. Cornelius was absolutely indignant at their obstinacy to remain as they are, and not conform to British standards.”

Albus shook his head, thrown for a loop. “Cornelius is not one to make wise decisions when rushing in. I’ll attempt to rectify matters, but I suspect they won’t be willing to listen.”

Minerva was silent. “I hear that they legalized a number of Dark magics,” she whispered. “I only heard it in rumor – not many are able to get a good idea of what goes on within their ministry, now – but it’s said that Black magics are being practiced there. What do you think?”

“For the sake of not only them, but everyone, I do hope it isn’t true,” said Albus. “The state of affairs in Mann has been on the rocks for some time, and I do hope that this development might lead to rectifying that. I’ll look into it and see what I can do,” he told her. Minerva nodded, an odd sight to see when only her head was visible. A sad, almost despairing look flitted across her face.

“Have you any news on Henrietta?” she asked, looking as though she’s rather not hear his answer. Albus’ grim expression spoke for him. “I see…” she said. Minerva regathered herself. “I’ll be checking in again later. Also, I believe there is an owl coming your way. It looked quite bedraggled from what I could tell.”

“An owl?” he reiterated.

“Yes… It refused to come near me, and seemed almost conflicted. The last I saw of it, it was dithering about your tower. Or perhaps it was the North…?”

“I believe that the workload is getting to us,” said Albus. “Perhaps it would be beneficial if you took a break, Minerva.” She mused over his suggestion, then nodded.

“Of course, I need to finish penning this last letter,” she said, looking off to the side. “I suppose that will be all. And do keep an eye out for that owl. It’s hard to miss, and I’m sure – ah, here’s another one,” she muttered. Albus chuckled.

“Good evening, Minerva, and do take care,” he said, to which she gave similar leaving, the fire dying as her head vanished from view. It was just as the last of the green embers faded that a sharp rapping came from the nearby window. Albus turned to it, already suspecting of who it might be.

“Well, hello,” he said, spying the white-feathered owl perched just along the ledge. It was a beauty, with gorgeous, keen eyes and black speckles dusting its back. Its feathers were rumpled in places, and it glanced about almost nervously, shifting its claws ever so slightly. A roll of parchment was clutched in its beak, damp and weatherworn. Albus allowed the bird into the tower, curious.

It swept into the room, feathers dropping where it landed. The owl’s head swiveled and turned, seemingly scouring his office. Albus watched with interest, wondering as to what it was doing. It jumped, swooping to land atop his desk, scratching at the papers beneath. Approaching it, Albus reached out, willing to take the missive. However, instead of dropping the parchment in his extended palm, the bird screeched, jumping back. Albus blinked.

“That is not for me, then,” he surmised. The owl glared at him with unfocused eyes. “I see now,” he said, withdrawing his wand, startling the bird. “You’ve had a spell cast on you. Let’s see if I can –,” the owl wouldn’t have whatever it suspected Albus to be doing, and jumped back, knocking an ornament off the desk. Albus smiled gently, attempting to ease its nerves. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he assured. Behind him, a few portraits awoke, grumbling over the ruckus.

The bird – confused, scared, irritated – seemed to have its attention caught by one of the shining trinkets along his desk. Albus let it toy with the object, glad to have it staying still. With a wave of his wand, he frowned, unable to identify what afflicted the bird. From as far as he could tell, it wasn’t a curse or jinx, or any recognizable charm. The owl, unnoticing, began to nudge the silver trinket it was so enamored with. While the bird stayed distracted, Albus cancelled whatever spell it was that was affecting it.

Aware of its surroundings, the owl hopped from his desk, swooping low. Before it could leave, it seized an unaddressed acceptance letter in its claws. Albus watched, startled, as the owl took off with the letter. His musings were interrupted by a sound – a high, keening scree – that emanated from his desk. It was the silver trinket with which the owl had been toying with. A familiar, silver trinket, that shouldn’t have been but was producing a light stream of steam.

Fate worked in strange ways, after all, and this was the only sign Albus needed.

* * *

Severus had been called up to his office not too long after the owl had left.

“You’re going to track it,” he said, leveling an unimpressed stare at him.

“Precisely,” said Albus, unrolling an extravagant map. He went about setting up the proper equipment, and then sat back to watch as the silver needle, affixed to a bronze toned arch, swung clockwise thrice, and counter seven, then stilling to fall dead center. As both Albus and Severus gazed on, the needle awoke, and bodily dragged itself across the parchment towards the British Isles, landing decisively upon the upper corner of the Isle of man.

“Oh my,” said Albus.

“Indeed,” drawled Severus. “You do realize the trouble this will cause?”

Albus did. Affairs were complicated (to say the very least) with the Isle of Man. However, if his suspicions proved true, it would be more than worth it. “I have reason to believe,” he started slowly, testing his words, “That Henrietta Potter may be found on the Isle of Man – specifically, in the exact location to which we have tracked the arrival of the letter.” Severus was silent.

“The reaction it,” he gestured to the silver trinket, “had was caused by the bird.”

“And it is highly likely that that owl was Henrietta’s,” Albus told him.

“It wouldn’t react to her owl simply because it was hers,” he contended.

“Ah,” said Albus, one finger raising. “But what if it wasn’t just her owl, but her familiar?” Severus paused at this, finding the argument reasonable. Albus wasn’t certain of the claim’s likelihood, but nevertheless found himself searching for answers. He was right that it wouldn’t have reacted to any normal owl, nor even one that often came into contact with Henrietta. However, a familiar bond – an actual, traditional familiar bond – would.

Severus seemed to come to the same realization. “Blood,” he said, face darkening. “The traditional bonding ritual involves the act of bloodletting. That would make sense –,” his eyes widened.

“Yes,” said Albus, smiling. “We’ve found her.”

This newfound hope was not enough to quell the worry that weighed heavily on Albus’ mind, however. Blood magic was an especially Dark magic, and the bonding ritual that Albus suspected was used was one of a lesser known variety. Henrietta had both known of, and conducted, this ritual.

It only served to strengthen his suspicions.

* * *

The house was inconspicuous, hidden on the outskirts of town and just brushing the beach. It was modeled after a cottage, but sturdier and larger in appearance. There was a distinct magical look to it, and was no doubt home to a witch or wizard. The front yard was overwhelmed by Devil’s Snare, which lined the collapsing stone wall acting as impromptu fence, and snapped at any moving, breathing creature.

Patches of medicinal and magical herbs grew in troves, some boxed in planters and others springing up from the ground. Tiny, inscrutable animals scuttled about in the undergrowth. If the plants avoided their feet as they made way, and the wind chime sang without a breeze, neither Albus nor Severus made comment of it.

The door of the cottage was made of a dense, age-old wood that loomed imperiously, richly brown and laden with knots. A single symbol was etched into the center, one that looked just as the rune Sowilo, except with the top curling slightly to the left.

“Is that…?”

“Yes,” said Albus, expression grim. “Euclid’s mark.” It was something he had seen quite often in the past few months, something he had toiled over, scoured through books and manuscripts alike to pinpoint – something etched innocuously into Euclid’s abandoned shops, hidden in her products, on her _staters_ – her _hemiobols_ : the Milesian Greek _Kopa._

“But how…” said Severus

“We shall see,” replied Albus, reaching out to knock. Just before his knuckles could touch the wood, a muffled, booming crash sounded within the house. Severus gripped his wand at his side, shoulders tensing. Nodding at him, Albus knocked loudly against the door. Another, no less quiet, clatter was heard, and then a distinctly feminine but deep voice shout, _“Geoffrey! Would you be a dear and get the door, I’m,”_ another bang, _“busy!”_

Severus arched an eyebrow, unimpressed, but was no doubt still alarmed. His wand remained clutched at his side, and Albus sent him a smile, covertly keeping a hand on his own, as well. Slow footsteps could be heard behind the door, and an odd clinking. A feeling of unease washed over Albus.

The doorknob jingled, twisting and turning, before the voice called out exasperatingly, _“The lock, Geoffrey; you have to unlock it.”_ The lock clicked. In drudging movements, the doorknob turned, and the door was pulled from within, creeping open.

Pale white bone and socket-less eyes, a skeletal frame with naught but a thin layer of decaying skin holding it together – that was what they saw, what they were greeted with, and what they both immediately recognized as an Inferius.

Albus and Severus pointed their wands to the Inferius’ face, to which it did not react, but instead continued to stand, eerily still.

“Don’t mind Geoffrey,” said the voice, which was now obvious as to be coming from the next room over. “He’s harmless – Geoffrey, do show them in – I’ll be done in just a moment.”

The Inferius – Geoffrey, as she called it – shuffled out the way of the door, watching with grim interest despite its lack for eyes. It backpedaled, tripping over its feet, before its knees hit the cushions of the couch behind it and it collapsed into a seated position, unmoving.

Albus had suspected, and partially expected, Henrietta to be practicing Dark Arts. However, this was… unforeseen. He entered the home, despite the danger proposed by the Inferius, and took note of his surroundings, Severus following. 

The house’s interior was just as eccentric as its exterior – ornaments from all across the globe littered the walls and filled the shelves, Persian rugs lined the floors, and books were haphazardly scattered about. A snowy owl – which Albus recognized as the one from before – was preening, perched atop a stand. It barked at him in greeting once before resuming its grooming.

A fireplace was positioned just across from the couch, towards the far left, with a bowl of what appeared to be Floo powder balanced precariously atop the mantel. Within the firebox, the ashes wriggled, and two glowing eyes peered out. The air, saturated with Dark magic, seemed to ripple with ravening intent. A thwomp sounded from the next room over – the kitchen? – and the voice called out, with no lack of exasperation, “Behave yourself, Lethe, or I make due on my promise.” 

The heady intent in the air dissolved, and with it the eyes closed, the ashes shuffling and settling. Albus shared a glance with Severus, a silent communication passing between them, and together they made their way towards the kitchen, through the arched entrance.

A young girl, with untamed, blood red hair fanning out, stood before the counter. Her skin was pale, and she was dressed in typical, if not traditional, witch fashion: an outer robe of deep blue, ruffled blouse, black trousers, and dragonhide boots. Her robe sleeve was pulled back, arm elbow deep in the body of a (surprisingly small) sea serpent. With a wet sound, she wrenched her arm free, grabbing a towel by her side and drying the blood. She turned to face them, her dark, dark eyes settling on their twin figures, lightning bolt scar glaring back through the loose strands of hair.

“Henrietta?”

“Perhaps,” she answered, an impish smile playing on her lips. Dropping the towel onto the counter, she nodded towards entrance, saying, “Why don’t we take tea in the sitting room? I’m sure you have questions.” Her countenance was confident, shoulders not slumped and head held high, movements graceful. Albus could sense the Dark magic surrounding her, coming from her. It was everywhere – in the books, the plants, the creatures, and the house itself.

“Certainly, my dear girl,” he said, and Henrietta’s eyes grew hooded. She led them from the kitchen to the sitting room, where the Inferius remained sitting. Albus watched, with tense shoulders, as she settled herself onto the cushion beside the Dark creature.

“Take a seat,” she said, gesturing to the two wing chairs. “Geoffrey, would you make our guests some tea?”

“That won’t be necessary,” interjected Albus, unable to keep from sending a sharp glance to the Inferius. Beside him, Severus shared his sentiments, glaring at the seated corpse.

Henrietta grinned knowingly. “It’s alright,” she assured. “Geoffrey might not be the brightest, but he’s more than capable of brewing tea. I’ve had him do it a thousand times by now, and as they say, practice makes perfect.” Her hand waved through the air, and the Inferius stood on buckling knees. It shuffled from the room, Albus and Severus both gripping their wands tight, and disappeared into the kitchen.

When their attention once again settled on Henrietta, she smoothed out her robes. “I’ve been awaiting you,” she murmured. “For quite some time, in fact.”

Severus spoke for the first time since meeting her. “You are… Euclid, are you not?”

“Indeed, I am,” she answered, smiling widely. Albus thought that her teeth were too white, and their edges too sharp, for normal teeth. “And you are Severus Snape, Potions Master, and customer of Hidden Elements. And you,” she said, turning to Albus, an unholy glint in her eyes, “are Albus Dumbledore – Headmaster of Hogwarts, Supreme Mugwump, and Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot.”

Albus’ gaze darkened. “And who might you be?” he asked, wanting to hear from the girl herself.

“Henrietta Ruis Potter, of course,” she said. “Although some call me Euclid, and others the Girl Who Lived. I prefer Hattie myself, though.”

“Hattie?” said Albus.

“Oh, yes, it’s something of a nickname,” she explained. “Henrietta is such a mouthful at times, and when one of the townspeople had called me by the shortened version, it just sort of stuck.”

“I… see. Would you prefer to be called Hattie, then?” Hadn’t that been what Lily and James had called her when she was younger? A coincidence, perhaps, but Albus did not believe in coincidences. She waved her hand dismissively.

“See fit to call me as you like,” she told him. Then, to Severus, “And you may continue to call me Euclid.” Henrietta grinned wickedly. Severus’ eyes darkened as he gritted his teeth, forcefully calming himself. Facing Albus once again, Henrietta continued, “I’d also like to thank you. Hedwig here –,” her owl barked, “was quite lost before you got to her. As you can see, she made it home safely.”

“That’s good to hear,” said Albus, nodding to Severus meaningful glance. “We –,”

“Ah, the tea is ready!” announced Henrietta, springing from the couch. “Careful, Geoffrey – you wouldn’t want spill them all over yourself again,” she cautioned, but her tone was light. The Inferius rounded the corner, silver tray in hand, tea set rattling with its jerky movements. Henrietta took the tray from it, either oblivious to or ignoring both Albus and Severus’ stiffening. He would wager on the latter.

The tray was placed on the low coffee table. Henrietta took her time with serving each of them, quietly humming to herself. When she had finished, she returned to her seat and spoke before Albus could get word in. “I know why you are here, and that you have been looking for me for some time.”

“If you knew, then why did you stay hidden? Why did you –,”

“Now, now, Severus,” said Albus, raising a gnarled hand. “Let Henrietta speak for herself. She must have a reason behind her disappearance, after all; isn’t that right, Henrietta?”

“Of course,” she agreed. “I did not reveal myself to you, because, as I have already once told you: _It’s much more fun to solve it on your own._ ”

“Is this some sort of game to you?” hissed Severus. He always has had a low tolerance for Potters, Albus thought. Henrietta smiled broadly, displaying her – far too sharp, he noted once more – teeth. Had they always been that way, or had she done something to them?

“Right on the money,” she said. “I love chaos, and toying with you both has been _such_ fun. You see, I get bored very easily, and I crave new, exciting things. I want _so_ much.” Her hands were brought up to her face, fingers wiggling. “Euclid’s Elements allowed for that. I could examine all the creatures I wanted – and so many unusual, magical creatures there are! – and take them apart. I enjoy it – examining the creatures, I mean.” She paused.

“All for my own knowledge, of course. I might be sick, but I don’t do it for no reason at all,” Henrietta told them. “Plenty of people take pride in their trades.” She leaned forward, eyes alit. “And I want to be the best.” She sat back up, straightening out her posture.

“The best what, might I ask?” Albus felt the zealous light in her eyes, the determination to get what she wanted, no matter the cost – was dangerous. Involving one’s self with Henrietta Potter, was, without a doubt, to dice with Death.

Henrietta paused, pensive, then stated earnestly, “The best Necromancer, of course.”

“Necromancer?” breathed Severus. “You’re –,” he couldn’t say it, for both he and Albus knew what had greeted them at the door, what had made and served their tea. An Inferius. It had responded to her commands, which could only mean she was its master – its creator.

“Yes,” said Henrietta, not the least perturbed. “I’ve always had a fascination with death and the intricacies behind bodies and how they function. My knowledge was so woefully inadequate that I just _had_ to know more. So, I left, in search of the ‘more’ that I craved.”

“You were eight,” said Albus, mulling over what she was saying. Was it possible for her to have made it on her own, all this time?

“Almost eight,” she corrected, taking a sip of her tea. “And I was highly proficient with my magic for a child. I managed to stumble across the magical world and made my way from there.”

Albus paused. “And your Hogwarts’ letter? Will you be attending?” If Henrietta could be persuaded into going to Hogwarts, then he could begin working to convince her of leaving behind the Dark. If he could, that is. He had a feeling that he had another Tom Riddle on his hands.

“I’m considering it,” she said seriously. “Fresh experiences are rather entertaining, and I’ve heard quite the stories about Hogwarts.” Henrietta smiled, head tilting slightly. “The Whomping Willow, violent and very, very valuable.” Her fingers twitched. “Ghosts and other such beings roaming about… and the Forbidden Forest.”

“Which is, understandably, forbidden,” Albus told her. Henrietta blinked, smiling demurely.

“Naturally,” she said, neither expression nor voice giving anything away.

“The Dark Arts are also prohibited within Hogwarts,” he continued, watching her face closely. She did not waver. “There are numerous laws against them in the United Kingdom, some punishable by sentence to Azkaban, which you are knowledgeable of, yes?”

“Azkaban, one of the few – if only – official wizarding prisons,” she answered. “And – as far as I am _to the knowledge of_ – only _certain_ branches of dark magic are able to land you there simply for their use. However, as you likely well know, those laws are very different here.” Henrietta smiled.

“Indeed,” Albus conceded. “Some Dark Arts are legally permissible within the United Kingdom. However, ethically –,”

“They are accepted by a wide variety of groups,” she finished for him. “Why, a great many of my customers are notorious Dark Arts practitioners, and haven’t once broken a law. That depends on where one might be at the time, however…”

“Necromancy is a crime punishable by –,”

“And where are you now, Mr. Dumbledore?” asked Henrietta. “You are on the Isle of Man, which governs itself. The laws here are not the same as those within the United Kingdom. What is socially acceptable is vastly different. Why, I wonder what uproar there would be if it came to light that the Chief Warlock was here, unannounced, no doubt,” she simpered. “The views here are different, after all.”

“Are you threatening us?” Severus asked, lowly. Henrietta looked surprised.

“No,” she said. “I am just concerned over the political backlash you could inadvertently cause. Mann hasn’t been too fond of Britain in the past few years, has it?”

“Things have been… tense, yes,” said Albus, before Severus could reply. “And therefore, we wouldn’t want to incite further complications.” He stood, nodding to Henrietta. “Thank you for hosting us so graciously on short notice. The tea was splendid, and I do hope you come to your conclusion on whether or not you shall be attending Hogwarts soon. Severus?”

Grudgingly, Severus nodded, biting out, “The tea was adequate. We will take our leave now.”

“The Floo is open for your use,” said Henrietta. “I suspect we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other, _Professor_.” Severus grimaced.

“That is kind of you to offer, however…”

“Ah,” said Henrietta, realization dawning. “Lethe!” she called, and the ashes dispersed, a shadow slithering out from the firebox. Severus jolted violently and Albus snapped to attention, pointing his wand at the cloak-like creature, a Patronus on his lips. It scrambled up Henrietta’s body, to which she did not react besides sighing exasperatingly. She patted its head, then lifted its chin with a finger, saying firmly, “My room,” to which it dropped and promptly left to.

“Perfectly trained,” she said. “The Floo is available now if you would so like.”

“Thank you, but we shall have to decline,” said Albus, thoroughly unsettled. What girl, what nearly eleven-year-old witch, is able to domesticate a Lethifold? “We have a portkey ready to use. It’s been… informative. I suppose we shall be seeing you September first, Miss Potter?” he asked, acknowledging Henrietta’s use of the term professor in respect to Severus.

“Perhaps,” she grinned, and yes – those teeth were too sharp to be normal.

* * *

“Albus,” asked Severus, “Do you believe her story?”

“Which?” said Albus. Severus paused.

“That she miraculously found the magical world. That her magical aptitude was so great she could stay hidden for years, could take down known wizard killing beasts.”

“I’m afraid to say that no, I do not. Henrietta Potter is hiding something – something greater than her identity as Euclid, something far more insidious than her involvement with the Dark Arts. I believe she is different, Severus, in a way that none of us will expect. None of us.”

Henrietta Potter was dangerous, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter (and work) will likely be severely edited in the future. I'm still working on the last chapter for this fic, but i think it will be done by today. And then i can start working on the next installments. I'm predicting that there will be about seven works in this series, but that could change too. We're getting to halfway, i guess. 
> 
> For the summary:  
> En Prise: Literally "in take" - able to be captured for free. A piece is en prise if it can be captured but is not guarded.  
> Attack: When you move a piece to a square where you could capture an opponent’s piece NEXT move.  
> Discovery: An attack by a piece that was opened up via another piece’s move.
> 
> The terms i used were chess terms taken from chesscentral. 
> 
> Anyhoo, on other things - i'm imagining Henrietta with an RP accent, y'know, super proper. She's great at adjusting her accent to fit the circumstances, though. She also has some quirks that you'll come to see in future chapters. Hopefully all will be explained, but if you have questions just leave a message or smth (you can probably tell i'm tired...)
> 
> So, this fic (set of fics?) was originally supposed to be something short to get my mind off other things i'm writing. It's sort of a partner fic to something else i'm writing - but i won't go into too much detail on that. A lot of this is inspired by other necromancer!harry fics and fem!harry fics. I love those, as you can see. I wanted to write one, however, that had JK Rowling's version of necromancy - inferi. Some things, of course, will be different; but i wanted an /actual/ necromancer harry that makes inferi and... well... yea. (i'm also a potions dork so euclid's elements happened LOL)
> 
> Not sure what else to put here, but i do need to say this:  
> Draco/Ron will be slow burn (hopefully) and not all 'lovey-dovey'. the way i see them happening in these fics is for a relationship built on personal growth.  
> Hermione/Harry (Henrietta) will be temporary, and not official. It'll be mutual feelings that aren't addressed.  
> Neville/Hannah will be a crush on neville's side only. Doesn't evolve further.  
> cedric/marcus is... i don't know what to say on that. it happened and now it's a thing.
> 
> Harry/Voldemort is the main paring. It will not be sub/dom or even close to that. Henrietta and Voldemort are both powerful in their own rights, and they compliment each other. It will not be a 'constantly fighting for dominance' dynamic but more of a yin/yang sort of deal. They will make the other stronger, and work towards that. Or, that's what i'm going for with this. I hope it turns out that way because sometimes the characters have a mind of their own.


	2. A Song of Enchantment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hattie partakes in a normal shopping trip.  
> Chaos ensues.

She crouched between the bramble and weed, her hands dirtied with the effort of plucking the wriggling stems. The Devil’s Snare cowered even as Hattie caressed it lovingly. _“A song of Enchantment I sang me there, in a green-green wood, by waters fair,”_ she sang, uprooting the invading vine. _“Just as the words came up to me, I sang it under the wild wood tree.”_

Hattie toiled away, beneath the shade of swaying canopy. _“Widdershins turned I, singing it low, Watching the wild birds come and go; No cloud in the deep dark blue to be seen,”_ she paused in her labor, tilting her head back. _“Under the thick-thatched branches green,”_ she concluded.

The living vine lay forever-still in her twine basket. _“Twilight came: silence came: The planet of Evening's silver flame; By darkening paths I wandered through –,”_ a pause, _“Thickets trembling with drops of dew.”_ Her hands rested against the base of the tree.

_“But the music is lost and the words are gone_

_Of the song I sang as I sat alone,_

_Ages and ages have fallen on me -_

_On the wood and the pool and the elder tree.”_

* * *

Hattie donned her summer cloak, light green with gold fastenings, and tied back her hair with a Holly fork. She smoothed the crinkle in her vest and tucked her amulet beneath her shirt. Today was a fine day to go shopping, Hattie mused, as long as it went uninterrupted. Perhaps it would be best to leave her hood up, then… Her attention was drawn by a shattering crash, sounding to be from the sitting room.

“Lethe!” she called, already knowing that the mischievous, living veil was responsible. “If I find out that you broke something important, I’ll skin you alive!” And oh, she would. She’s done it before, in fact. Lethifolds were such interesting creatures, and a sight to see when dissected – however, Hattie found more use in keeping this one alive, but if it proved too much trouble, she could always find another. Or get the Basilisk she has always wanted; petrification would be mighty useful.

Blinking lazily, Hattie smiled impishly.

It was when she entered the sitting room that her demeanor chilled. Lethe ducked behind the couch, scurrying underneath. “Lethe,” she said, eyeing the pieces of ceramic bowl scattered about and the spilled, emerald dust. “That was a big mistake.” With cold eyes, she grasped the tail of the Lethifold, dragging it from its hiding place. Holding it dangling before her, Hattie watched emotionlessly as it attempted to snap its fangs at her.

“I don’t think so,” she said, a smile beginning to play at her lips. The Lethifold settled, shivering slightly, quakes racking its body. “Oh, oh,” Hattie worried, “There, there. I won’t hurt you.” A wicked gleam entered her gaze. “Too much.”

“GEOFFREY!” Clatter from the next room over. “I’m heading to Aalish’s – keep the house in order. And for sake of your continued existence – DO NOT, and I repeat, DO NOT let the _Cŵn Annwn_ out. They ruined my favorite rug and I will not be letting them have free run of the house again within – I don’t know – the next century.” She received no response, as had been expected. Hattie turned to Hedwig, who was watching balefully from her stand.

“Do you want to come?” she asked. Her familiar turned her head away, dismissive. _“Traa dy liooar,”_  scoffed Hattie, despite knowing that if Hedwig wanted, she could by her side at a moment’s notice. “Very well,” she said, turning away.

Lifting Lethe to eye-level, Hattie told it, “And as punishment, you’ll be coming with me.” It squirmed in her grip. “Now, get under my cloak and keep yourself out of sight. I’m certain that Aalish would have a heart attack if she spotted you.” At her words, the Lethifold scuttled up her arm and under her cloak, hanging from her shoulders. “Good,” she told it.

After a short trek down the path from Hattie’s cottage, she arrived at the neighboring home of Aalish. Hattie knocked briskly three times. _“Just a mo’,”_ called a muffled voice. The door opened, revealing the grey-haired, animated mien of Aalish Kelly. “Hattie! _Moghrey mie_ ,” she greeted.

 _“Moghrey mie,”_ Hattie returned with a nod and a curtsy. Aalish waved her off with a smile.

“There’s no need to be so formal this early in the mornin’,” she said. Appraising her attire, she continued, “And where might you be headin’?”

“Shopping,” answered Hattie. “Do you mind if I come in?”

“Oh, of course not! Where are my manners?” she said, moving out the way. Hattie passed under the hanging sage, entering the foyer. The two moved to the sitting room, where Aalish’s kneazle lay slumbering on a cushion. She woke, startled, then scampered from the room at the sight of Hattie. Aalish stifled a laugh. “Breesha still has yet to come around, it seems.”

Hattie gave her a grin. “She smells Death on me. I’m not surprised she runs.” Kneazles never were too fond of her, and neither were crups. Owls differed on an individual basis.

Aalish shook her head, saying, “Aye, however I still hold hope that she’ll warm up to ya’. Shoppin’, you said? Are you headin’ Across?” Hattie nodded, fixing her hood.

“Indeed,” she said. “However, my Floo powder was knocked askew. I came by to ask if I could use your Floo instead.” Aalish was a kind soul; she wouldn’t refuse even if she hadn’t the means to go through.

“Go right on ahead,” she told her, making way. Withdrawing her Poplar wand, Aalish said, _“Incendio!”_ and a fire sprung to life in the firebox, warm and inviting. Lethe shivered.

Hattie nodded in thanks, murmuring a soft, _“Gura mie ayd,”_ as she pinched the dust and threw into the flames. The body of the fire rose and crackled, alighting with a bright green, to which Hattie stepped into. Lethe hissed from his position, folding in closer. Serves the troublemaker right, thought Hattie, as she firmly announced, “The Leaky Cauldron!”

 _Chimlee_ whirred past her with the speed of a shuttering movie reel. When her stop arrived, Hattie sprung from the twisting, confining torrent of emerald fire. She coughed, having been unable to help breathing in the soot. Floo was an unreliable mode of transportation for her – it either worked fabulously or not at all. She dusted the filth from her clothes, standing with confidence.

The pub was bustling with people, some causing a ruckus at their tables – slamming their fists down and laughing uproariously, or otherwise shouting for some reason or another. Hattie slipped past them with practiced ease, finding her way to the brick wall entrance of Diagon Alley.

Hattie flicked her wrist, letting her wand fall into the palm of her hand. She tapped the appointed pattern, and watched as the bricks came apart, rearranging. Diagon Alley was just as busy as the pub had been, throngs of people hustling  to and fro. With her wand reaffixed to her arm, Hattie entered the alley, making her way towards the bank.

Gringotts stood impressively, striking in its marble visage, but Hattie did not linger. She spared two nods for the goblins standing guard and walked right in. Inside, tellers managed lines of impatient wizards and witches, the irritation palpable in the air. Hattie ignored this, instead walking straight up to an unaccompanied goblin. He did not glance up from his work as he told her, “Bother someone else.”

“I daresay I won’t,” she responded. The goblins eyes widened, looking up to her with floundering mouth. How uncouth, thought Hattie.

“Lady Tramman,” he said. Then, having collected himself, “I apologize. Right this way –,” The goblin rose, leading her from the entrance hall. “Are you here –,”

“I am here to see the Potter vaults. The trust fund, if you will.” 

“O-Of course, right this way –,”

Hattie left the building with enough galleons to sustain her purchases. She had more than enough in her own vaults – Euclid’s vaults – however, the _Bumbee_ was watching, and Hattie knew to be careful. That wouldn’t stop her from making most of her purchases in Knockturn Alley, though. Cobb  & Webb's, from what she could recall, had a lovely selection of hand eating trunks.

“Arachne,” Hattie greeted, pushing open the door to Cobb & Webb’s. The store was just as she remembered: dusty, humid, reeking of tobacco, and themed with cobwebs. Behind the counter, Arachne spun around, a kiseru poised at her lips.

“… Euclid?” she murmured, placing the pipe down. Hattie removed the hood from her head, displaying her porcelain skin and blood red hair, held back by the Holly fork. Arachne’s eyes met Hattie’s, surprise showing clear.

“In the flesh,” she grinned. “I’m here to make a purchase.”

“But – I,” she stumbled. How amusing.

Hattie’s eyes hooded as she said, “I do hope you keep this between us. My identity will be revealed soon enough, but I find that anonymity still has its perks at the moment.” Arachne’s posture straightened.

“As if I would betray you, Euclid,” she snapped. “I am not one of those – those… _uragirimono_.” Hattie smirked, eliciting a sigh from Arachne. Only when the woman was truly passionate did she slip into her mother tongue.

“I never suspected you were, Arachne,” said Hattie. “I know a _lhiam-lhiat_ when I see one, and no turncoat would ever wield an English Oak as excellently as you do.” The woman blinked, then bowed her head.

“Thank you, Euclid,” she said. “Now, what might you be looking for?”

Hattie left Knockturn Alley with her new trunk – with protection wards that would quite literally take a bite out of you – and various other supplies stashed away (she already had the equipment listed on the back of the acceptance letter; these were just some items she thought she might need). Her next stop would be either robes or textbooks, and seeing as Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions was closest, Hattie decided on heading over to the robes shop first.

The bell at the door chimed, signaling her entrance. Madam Malkin, who was nearly as short as the first year she was fitting, was dressed in mauve and smiling broadly. The blonde-haired boy squeaked, a magical pin poking his side. “My bad, dearie,” she said, although it sounded terribly insincere. Addressing Hattie, she greeted, “Welcome! How might I help you?”

Beaming at the witch, Hattie pushed her weight onto the balls of her feet, leaning forward with false enthusiasm. “I’m going to Hogwarts! I need to be fitted for a uniform.” Madam Malkin cooed at the sight: Hattie, an ostensibly innocent first year, dressed in traditional witch-wear, looking as though a doll might.

_How easily toyed with._

Hattie was saddled next to the blonde boy, who, upon closer inspection, she noted was a Malfoy. His features were elegant, if not slightly pinched, and his eyes were a light grey-almost-blue. Black features showing through, then, mused Hattie, thinking of cold grey eyes and black hair.

“Hello,” said the little Malfoy – what was his name again? – when Madam Malkin left. “Hogwarts too?”

For the fun of it, Hattie replied, “Nope,” with a straight face. The little Malfoy’s air of cool collectiveness cracked.

“What?” he gawped. “But – earlier you –,”

“I lied,” said Hattie, rolling her eyes, a sneer curling her lips. “I’m going to Durmstrang Institute,” she drawled. “That witch needn’t know where I’m going.”

“Then why tell her anything? Now she thinks you’re going to Hogwarts,” he told her, as if that wasn’t obvious.

“Well,” said Hattie, with the air of a master manipulator, “If she’s under the assumption that I am an innocent little Light witch, then I’ll be treated like an honest-to-goodness paying customer. You did notice her – rather rude, might I add – treatment of you, did you not, Heir Malfoy?”

His jaw flailed with the effort to keeping from staring open-mouthed. “You –,” he paused, seemingly thinking over his words. Finally, thought Hattie. This kid hadn’t shown an ounce of poise yet. He held his hand out, despite Madam Malkin’s – she had just returned – scolding of ‘to keep still’. “Malfoy, Draco Malfoy,” he introduced, remembering his manners. “It’s an honor to meet you, …?”

Hattie took his palm in hers and shook, both of them, again, ignoring Madam Malkin’s protests. Grinning widely, Hattie dipped into a curtsy, “Merry meet, Heir Malfoy,” she greeted. “And blessings betide you  from the Potter family.”

A pin could be heard dropping – quite literally.

“Potter?” gasped someone, and Hattie suspected it was an assistant.

Little Malfoy – Draco – blinked owlishly, then made a customary bow. “Hecate’s blessings,” he murmured, “from the Malfoy family, heir – heir? – Potter.”

“I graciously accept,” said Hattie. “And you may call me either Hattie or Henrietta, Heir Malfoy.” He looked ready to respond, but was interrupted by Madam Malkin’s – rather annoying – reiteration of ‘standing still’. His jaw snapped shut, a look of vexation overcoming his features.

“Draco?” said a feminine voice. Another blonde head rounded the corner, and this time Hattie recognized her as Lady Malfoy. Her cold blue eyes roved over the scene with intensity. “Perhaps I was right in saying Twilfitt and Tattings would be better suited to our refined tastes,” she sneered, quite elegantly, might Hattie add.

“Mother,” began Draco, but was denied further words.

“Come now, Draco,” said Narcissa. “We have other – more deserving – places to be.”

“Greetings, Lady Malfoy,” spoke up Hattie. The woman’s eyes fell on her appraisingly. Hattie did a small curtsy – Lethe shifting its position as she did so – and Madam Malkin did not protest. “Draco and I were just becoming acquainted.”

“And who might you be?” she asked, suspicious. “I do not recognize you.” Ah, but you will soon, thought Hattie. Draco, at her side, seemed to want to speak, but held back.

“Why, I am the Lady of the House of Potter, Henrietta Potter.” This caused a slight reaction within the stone-faced woman.

“Lady?” she asked. “That’s not –,”

“I regret to interrupt,” Hattie interjected, “But it is, in fact, possible. I have already taken care of affairs with Gringotts.”

“They should not have had the authority to decree such a title,” Narcissa said with narrowed eyes. “And certainly not so quietly.”

“I could tell you more, however, I believe you have – more deserving? – places to be.” Hattie smiled, then feigned dawning realization. “I know!” she said, eyes alight with childish glee. “Why don’t I go with you?” Without waiting for an answer, she turned to Madam Malkin, saying, “I’ll have the school uniform and cloak pack, please. I’ll have it sent by owl.” She handed over the requisite number of galleons.

The next moments occurred in a blur: Hattie waved off the words of Madam Malkin and her assistant, ushered Narcissa and her son from the shop, and then raised an eyebrow to a flabbergasted Draco.

Narcissa reigned herself in far quicker than her son had, and told Hattie, “We are heading to Ollivander’s. Have you yet to purchase your wand?”

“No,” said Hattie, honestly. She hadn’t purchased her wand, after all. “I haven’t picked up my textbooks, either.”

“Good,” said Narcissa. “I am taking Draco to Flourish and Blotts once he has received his wand. You may accompany us if you so like.”

“I would love to,” said Hattie.

Draco decided to pipe up with a “I thought you said you were going to Durmstrang? Wouldn’t you need different textbooks?” Darker texts, he didn’t say, that Flourish and Blotts likely wouldn’t carry.

Narcissa looked surprised. “Durmstrang, you say?”

“Oh, that,” said Hattie, dismissive. “I was lying.”

“What?” squawked Draco, and Hattie laughed at his expression. He was sufficiently cowed when Narcissa reprimanded him for his lack of couth, however. “Why would you lie, though?” he asked mulishly.

Hattie shrugged, answering, “I thought it would be entertaining. And it was.”

“We’re here,” announced Narcissa. With a pointed look to her son, Draco opened the door for her, and Hattie followed in.

“Welcome, welcome,” said Ollivander, coming out from behind the counter. “Narcissa Black – now Malfoy – nine and a half inches. Black Walnut. Unicorn hair,” he recited, eyes wide and unblinking. “Quite rigid, if I remember.”

“Yes,” said Narcissa. “And it has served me well. I am here for my son’s wand, however.”

“Right,” said Ollivander. His eyes flickered to Hattie momentarily. “This way – yes, right here,” he said to Draco. “Which is your wand arm?”

“My right,” answered Draco. Ollivander hummed, magical tape flying about Draco, measuring him. The wand maker had him hold out his arm, which was also measured. Receding into the back of the shop, Ollivander shuffled through various boxes, then brought out three.

“Try this,” he said, extending a darkly colored wand to Draco. However, before Draco could touch it, the wand was brought back, Ollivander muttering, “No, definitely not.” Another wand, this time pale white, was handed over. Draco gave it a swish, but it was once again taken from him. “This one,” said Ollivander, procuring the last of the wands. It was a soft brown with a silver hilt.

When Draco touched it, his expression shifted, and when he brought it down through the air sparks were emitted from the tip.

“Perfect!” cried Ollivander, hands clapping together. “Ten inches. Hawthorn and Unicorn hair. Reasonably pliant. A fine wand. That’ll be six galleons and four knuts.” Narcissa handed over the money as Draco studied his wand.

“Now,” he said, eyes falling on Hattie. “Miss Potter – you have your mother’s hair. And your eyes…”

“Are my own.” She smiled politely.

“You have a wand.”

“I do,” said Hattie. She withdrew it from her wand holster, letting the wandmaker inspect it from afar. His eyes roved over the wood, the make and the shape, and the way it rested in Hattie’s hand.

“It fits,” he concluded. “Eleven and a half inches. Reasonably supple.” Ollivander paused, seemingly unable to understand his next words. “… made of Elder wood. How intriguing – and it works adequately? How long have you had it in your possession?”

Hattie stroked the wand. “Almost two years. I had another before I made this one – and yes, I made it myself – which I had received from a local, retired wandmaker.”

“Which was made of?” Ollivander prodded. The man was too curious for his own good, thought Hattie.

“Chestnut,” she allowed. “It broke.”

“I am sorry to hear that,” said Ollivander, honestly sympathetic. “What of the cores?”

Hattie didn’t answer.

“I think that is enough prying, Mr. Ollivander,” cut in Narcissa. “Lady Potter has a right to her own business.”

“Of course,” said Ollivander. “I suppose I cannot interest you in buying another?” he asked Hattie. Another wand could be beneficial – it could be used as a decoy, or for other such purposes.

“If I do recall Mr. Ollivander, having more than one wand is illegal,” said Narcissa.

“Perhaps another time,” Hattie decided. “I would like to purchase a new wand holster, though.”

* * *

Only once they had left Ollivander’s, and made their way into Flourish and Blott’s, did Narcissa pull aside Hattie.

“How did you go about convincing the goblins to make you Lady Potter?” she asked first. Hattie dithered between telling the truth, and telling the full truth. The former would be the safest, and most obvious, answer. The latter, however, would incite chaos – and Hattie wouldn’t pass up such a chance to toy with the Lady Malfoy.

“Well,” she said, “I did pay them quite the sum.” Narcissa seemed assured at these words, as they she had expected nothing less. Upending her conviction was going to be delightful. “Though,” she continued, “I do hold quite the sway within Gringotts.” This caught Narcissa’s attention. Good. “After all, with all the money, and not to mention notoriety –,” she thought Hattie was referring to her status as Potter heir, as the Girl Who Lived. Hattie’s canines were showing through with her amusement. “– that being Euclid entails. I mean, Euclid’s Elements has been a lucrative business, and for them to get a hold on any stocks, or unannounced –,”

Narcissa’s reaction was better than she could have expected. The woman gasped sharply, her whole demeanor stiffening with the sudden onslaught of unadulterated terror. She took two, sharp steps back, one shaking hand rising to lay flat against her chest.

“Euclid?” she whispered.

“Indeed,” said Hattie. Then, with grim delight, she told her, “You needn’t have any reason to worry, Cissy. Those skeletons in your cupboard – and goodness, do you have quite the _scutch_ of them – will be staying right where they’re at. I have no reason to let them out. Well, not yet, I suppose.”

“Mother, I’ve gotten my books –,”

 

(Not yet.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Song Of Enchantment - Poem by Walter de la Mare  
> Cŵn Annwn - Welsh mythological 'hounds of Annwn', they are spectral hounds and part of the wild hunt (if you want to know more there's a wikipedia page and other more credible sources)  
> Aalish - manx name 'alice' (correct me if i'm wrong)  
> Traa dy liooar - (Trah the looar) Manx for "time enough", either an incitement to take things easier, or an insult to a lazy person. - Wikipedia  
> Moghrey mie - Good morning (Manx) - Wikipedia  
> Across – The United Kingdom; referred to as across the water - Wikipedia  
> Gura mie ayd - Thank you - Wikipedia  
> Chimlee - Chimney - Wikipedia  
> Tramman – An elder tree - Wikipedia  
> Bumbee – Bumblebees,[1] which children were told were bad fairies and captured in "Bumbee Cages" - Wikipedia  
> Kiseru - Japanese smoking pipe  
> Uragirimono - Traitor  
> Lhiam-lhiat – (lyam-lyat) An inconsistent person who changes sides easily – from Manx Gaelic for "with me – with thee" - Wikipedia  
> Scutch – A quantity of something; e.g. There were a scutch of people there. (from Gaelic cooid, "selection", "amount", "number") - Wikipedia
> 
> Tell me if i missed any !
> 
> Wand wood meanings:
> 
> Poplar - Poplar wands rely upon, of consistency, strength and uniform power, always happiest when working with a witch or wizard of clear moral vision. The existence of these wands and its owners was cited as evidence against a myth that poplar wands never chose politicians.  
> English Oak - A wand for good times and bad, this is a friend as loyal as the wizard who deserves it. Wands of English oak demand partners of strength, courage and fidelity.  
> Black Walnut - Less common than the standard walnut wand, that of black walnut seeks a master of good instincts and powerful insight. Black walnut is a very handsome wood, but not the easiest to master. Paired with a sincere, self-aware owner, however, it becomes one of the most loyal and impressive wands of all, with a particular flair in all kinds of charmwork.  
> Chestnut - Chestnut wands prefer witches and wizards who are skilled tamers of magical beasts, those who possess great gifts in Herbology, and those who are natural fliers.
> 
> Narcissa doesn't have a canon wand wood/etc. So i made due with one that suited her fairly well and fit the description of her wand. I also wanted to use a wood that not many of the other characters had. Her core is unicorn hair because Draco's is that, and i figured that sometimes the parents must have similar-ish wand types. Also she strikes me as a unicorn hair. Info is from canon/hp wiki.
> 
> I'm certain that i had something else to say or to put here, but i can't quite remember. I may make an edit to add it later if it's important.


	3. The Happy Voices Cry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Riding a train isn’t all too exciting.  
> (Hattie disagrees.)

_First of September 1991 – King’s Cross Station, London_

“Gimme a pin,” said Hattie, tying up her hair, “To stick in me chin, to carry a lady to London; Gimme another to stick in the t’other, and carry her a liddle bit furder.” She hummed a little under her breath, satisfied with her work.

The station appeared, from afar, to be bustling; but from within, it was positively swarming. There were muggles in business suits, carrying their briefcases at their sides and stern expressions across their faces – there were women and children, and foreigners and workers. A guard passed by Hattie, dismissing her presence.

 _“…packed with Muggles, of course –,”_ said a voice from not too far off. Hattie, interest peaked, made her way through the swarms of people to locate the witch. A gaggle of red heads came into view – their hair two shades lighter than Hattie’s – each of the boys carrying behind them luggage that looked suspiciously magical.

“What was the platform number again?” asked the older witch, whom Hattie recognized as Molly Weasley. One of the children, the only girl, perked up.

“Platform Nine and Three Quarters!” she piped. The youngest daughter of Arthur Weasley – she must be Ginevra, concluded Hattie. Her hair was just as fiery as her parents’, and a smattering of freckles painted her cheeks. She had the paleness that all gingers bore, but a liveliness to combat any suspicions of _moal_.

“Ginny, you’re not old enough,” responded Molly to something Hattie hadn’t caught. Little Guinevere looked put out, clutching her mother’s hand tightly. “You’ll be able to go next year, dearie. Now, Percy, you’re first.” Percy, mused Hattie, must be Percival. Despite the Weasleys’ disrespect for traditions, they had kept that one, at the very least. Although, to be fair, they weren’t entirely aware of it.

Percival marched along, passing through the gateway between Platforms Nine and Ten. Hattie watched, disinterested, as he faded from view, finding herself suddenly bored. There was only one way to rectify that.

“Excuse me!” she called, bounding up to the family. Molly startled, peering around for the sudden exclamation, then spotted Hattie. Knowing that she would be out in muggle view, Hattie had foregone her usual traditional manner of fashion, and instead donned a casual, dark red turtleneck, and black trousers. Atop that she wore a black windbreaker, and to finish the ensemble, brown lace up boots. Summers weren’t particularly warm on Mann, after all; and it wasn’t as though Hattie couldn’t cast a charm to keep from overheating.

“Oh, hello dearie,” said Molly. “Is this your first time at Hogwarts?”

“Aye,” replied Hattie, deciding to have a little fun. From the looks of the two behind Molly, they were of the same idea.

“This is Ron’s first time, too,” she said, placing a hand on the youngest’s shoulder. “Introduce yourself, Ronald,” Molly nudged.

“Hi,” he said, feet shuffling. “My name’s Ron Weasley.” He features were pinched tight with anxiety.

“Hattie,” she nodded. Then, feeling mischievous, said, “Hattie Weasley.”

“Weasley?” said one of the twins.

“Red hair?” said the other.

“Freckles?”

“More kids than they can afford?”

They looked to each other, then, sharing a wide-eyed expression. Then, turning back to Hattie, they extended their arms, and with teary eyes, embraced her.

“Long-lost sibling!” they shouted in unison. Molly was watching on with both exasperation, shock, and trace amounts of apprehension. Both Ron and little Guinevere didn’t know how to react.

“FRED! GEORGE!” Molly shouted once she had had enough. “Apologize to the poor girl – and she not your long-lost sister; I would know if she was.” Under her breathe, though, she muttered, “I hope I would.”

“She’s right,” said Hattie, smiling meekly. “I’m not your sister, I’m your cousin!”

“Cousin?” squawked Ron. “I didn’t know we had another cousin! Mum, why didn’t you tell us we had another cousin?”

“Oh, Mum! Why didn’t you tell me; we could’ve had her come over during the summer,” cried little Guinevere. Molly was at a loss.

“She’s not – I mean, she’s not from my side of the family. If anything, you should be asking your father. Oh, look at the time! You’re all going to miss the train. Hurry up now, Fred, George,” she ushered. Hattie watched, amused, as they made a scene – “I’m _Fred_ , mum, not George.” – and confused their mother to the point of her snapping at the two.

“You next, Ron,” she paused. “And Hattie, too.”

When they had reached the other side, Hattie appraised the gleaming red train, finding it to be a spectacular sight. The rest of the Weasleys came through, and Hattie ignored the rest of their conversation – something to do with toilet seats, she thinks.

“So, you’re really our cousin?” asked Ron, saddling up next to Hattie. He was gangly, had more freckles than his brothers and sister combined, and had a smudge on his nose. His eyes were startling blue, however, and that is what Hattie noticed above all.

Nodding to his question, Hattie replied, “Aye. Surely, you know your Da’s brother? He’d be your uncle, and he’s my Da.” Hattie was beside herself with the hilarity of the situation. This was going to be _great_.

“Uncle Billius? That can’t be – we know all his kids,” said Ron, eyebrows furrowing. Hattie barked a laugh, fiddling with the cuff of her jacket.

“No, his other brother. Arcturus Weasley.”

“Arcturus?” said Molly. “How is he? We haven’t heard from him for some time now.”

“He’s –,”

“Oh, dear,” Molly interrupted, pulling out a handkerchief and scrubbing the grime from Ron’s face – “Mum, geroff!” – “You two best be getting on, now.” The train had started to emit low puffs of steam, and the last of the students were boarding.

“Send me a letter, Hattie!” called Molly as both Hattie and Ron boarded the train. When the door had shut behind them, and the floor beneath them rattled and churned, signaling the start of the journey, Ron released a huff of air.

“Honestly,” he said. “She’s always babying me. I guess family’s just like that, though. Hey, this means you’re family, right?” Hattie nodded. “That’s… cool, I suppose. Not that I mean anything bad by that – it’s just that we have a lot of family, you know?”

“Oh, yeah,” nodded Hattie. This kid sure was a bumbling mess. “Let’s find a compartment, shall we?”

The first few compartments that they opened were full, and the next couple after that had older students who didn’t seem overly affable with sharing. Eventually, they ended up coming across the compartment which Fred and George were staying in.

“Our dearest cousin!” cried one, whom she recognized as George. Beside him, a boy with dreadlocks startled, the tarantula in his grasp nearly being thrown across the compartment.

“Watch it, Lee!” said Fred, pulling back the scroll he was scrawling on.

“Sorry, sorry! You made me jump,” he grumbled. “And who’s this? I recognize little Ronnikins, but not the other redhead.”

“She’s our long-lost sister –,”

“No, our estranged cousin –,”

“Lady Potter!” called the high voice of Draco Malfoy. His slicked back blonde hair was ruffled and cheeks tinged red when Hattie spotted him. He noticed his state of appearance, and cleared his throat, futilely attempting to smooth down the rumples in his robe. “I’ve been looking all over for you,” he said.

“Oh, Draco!” said Hattie, feeling the stirrings of mischief making once again. “Meet Ron, he’s my cousin – and these are Fred and George Weasley, my other cousins – don’t we make a lovely family?”

“Did he say Potter?” whispered Ron, face white as a sheet. Oh, Hattie was loving this.

“Our dearest cousin Hattie is actually –,”

“Hattie Potter!” finished George.

“Of course this is Henrietta Potter, you dimwits,” sneered Draco, “And what’s this about family?”

“I’m confused,” added Lee, summarizing the collective feeling.

“Well,” said Hattie, “My name is actually Henrietta Ruis Potter, and my father is not, in fact, Arcturus Weasley – but I also go by Hattie, Lady Potter, Lady Tramman, Hattie Tramman, Hattie Peverell, and Euclid.”

“Did you catch any of that?”

“Nope.”

“EUCLID?” screeched Draco.

“Henrietta Potter!” cried Ron.

“What is going on out here?” yelled a voice from across the train car. It was a prefect.

“Henrietta Potter!” repeated Ron, dumbly.

“We can see that, Weasley,” sneered the prefect. “Now, keep your voices down or I’ll take points.”

“But we haven’t even been sorted yet!”

“Unlucky for wherever you get sorted, then. Now, do shut up.”

“Can they do that?” whispered Lee. George shrugged whilst Fred grinned.

“Did you hear that, Ronnikins?” asked Fred in a low voice. “You’re going to lose points before you’re even sorted! Even we haven’t done that.” Ron paled even further, looking almost ready to be sick.

“Let’s find a compartment, hmm?” said Hattie, patting Ron’s shoulder soothingly, although it didn’t do much help. “You too, Draco,” she included. Draco looked uneasy.

“I already have one saved,” he said, appearing as though he had more to say, but wouldn’t yet. “But the Weasel –,”

“You wouldn’t deny my cousin to come with, would you, Draco?” She batted her eyelashes, smiling coyly. Draco blushed.

“No, but –,”

“Ah, no buts,” Hattie chastised. “And he really is my cousin. My third cousin, to be exact.” If she did her calculations correctly, that is – which she was sure she had.

“Wait, so we’re really related?” asked Ron, skeptical, but also eager.

“Oh, yes. And we can talk all the more with the compartment Draco has so kindly saved for us.” She smiled at Draco, head tilting forward. “It’s been a pleasure, Fred, George, Lee,” Hattie said.

“Farewell, cousin-ours!” said Fred, waving a kerchief through the air, eyes tearing up.

“Cheerio! Good day!” pitched in George.

“Which way?” asked Hattie, turning to Draco. He looked vaguely lost, and a bit irritated. Nevertheless, he led them to the compartment in which he had saved. Two more first years were already seated inside, both appearing quite bulky in stature.

“These are Crabbe and Goyle,” he introduced. The two nodded, grunting. Hattie didn’t pay them much mind.

“Sit, both of you,” she said. “And I’ll tell you everything.”

“Are we really third cousins?” asked Ron, squeezing in next to Hattie. “I mean, I don’t see how we could be – the Weasleys aren’t related to the Potters, nor are the Prewetts.”

“Seems like the blood traitor _does_ know his family history,” sneered Draco. How amiable, thought Hattie.

“Hey!” Ron shouted, rising from his seat, hackles raised. Crabbe and Goyle looked ready to rise, themselves, before Hattie cut in.

“Now, now,” she said. “Calm down – the lot of you.” This earned a few glances, but they nonetheless complied. “Good,” said Hattie, feeling as though she were training beasts – which she was immensely talented at. “To answer your question: yes, we are third cousins.”

“How?” asked Draco, brows furrowed. “I know most of the pureblood lines by heart, and I don’t recall seeing a relation between the Weasleys and Potters anywhere.”

“It’s a bit complicated, you see,” she started. “First, allow me to give some background information on the Weasleys. Ron’s father, Arthur Weasley, is the son of Septimus Weasley and Cedrella Black – with brothers Billius and Arcturus Weasley. Cedrella Black, as you well know, was the daughter of Arcturus Black II.”

“I didn’t know that,” said Ron, surprised.

“Obviously,” drawled Draco, rolling his eyes. Then, realizing what he had done, stiffened. Hattie smirked, knowing that his parents would surely reprimand him for such ‘plebian’ behavior.

“Anyhoo,” said Hattie. “My father, James Potter –,” this earned a flinch, “– was the son of Fleamont Potter and Euphemia Burke.”

“Burke?” repeated Draco. “But – but that can’t be; I haven’t heard –,”

“It’s true,” nodded Hattie. “Euphemia Burke was the daughter of Herbert Burke and Belvina Black.” Recognition lit in Draco’s eyes, to which Hattie grinned. “Yes, that means that my great-great grandfather was Phineas Nigellus Black.”

“Amazing…” murmured Draco. “That means –,”

“Wait, Burke?” interjected Ron. “Isn’t that a Dark –,” Hattie cleared her throat, cutting of Ron’s spiel.

“Yes, Draco?” she asked, easing his irritation at being interrupted.

“That means that we’re third cousins once removed,” he said, mentally calculating. “And that – oh, Merlin – you really are third cousins with the Weasel.”

“Hey! Quit calling me that!” shouted Ron, face reddening. Hattie laughed, and it was a rich, smooth laughter.

“Aren’t we just one big, happy family?” she said. The door then slid open, jarring the occupants. Standing in the doorway was a girl about their age, with a mane of untamed, frizzy hair. Her nose was stuck up in the air obnoxiously, but upon seeing five sets of eyes trained on her, she wilted.

Nevertheless, she spoke, “Have you perhaps seen a toad? Neville has lost one, and we think it might have gone this way. And aren’t you hot in all those clothes? It is summer, after all.”

“And who are you?” said Draco, sharply, eyeing her face.

“Draco,” warned Hattie. Facing the girl, she replied, a soft smile on her face, “I am not hot at all. In fact, I am quite comfortable.” The girl’s mouth opened, but Hattie continued. “You see, there are types of magic which can be used to keep yourself at comfortable temperatures –,” again, she looked ready to speak, “– but I am not using any. I am naturally a cold natured person.”

“I see,” she sniffed. “Well, my name’s Hermione Granger, and if you see a toad then tell either Neville Longbottom or me.” And with that, she shut the door and was gone.

“Well, that was…” Ron didn’t continue.

“A toad,” said Hattie, tilting her head. “What a peculiar choice of familiar.”

“I have a hawk owl,” said Draco, preening. Ron sent him a glare, although Hattie could tell from his expression that he was envious.

“I only have Scabbers,” he said, lifting a large rat from his belongings. Draco squeaked and recoiled, while Hattie leaned in, interested.

“A longtail,” she noted. Then, with closer inspection, “He’s missing a toe.”

“Yea, he’s always been that way,” said Ron. “I got him from Percy, ‘cause he has an owl now.”

“Disgusting,” muttered Draco, but Hattie only blinked.

“How old is he?” she asked, holding out her hands. Reluctantly, Ron dropped the dozing rat into her palms.

“I dunno,” he answered. “A couple years old. Maybe nine.”

“Weasel,” blanked Draco, “That is more than a ‘couple’.”

In her hands, Hattie turned the rat over, dragging a finger across his stomach. Ron watched confusedly.

“You see,” she said, not looking up, “I study creatures – their biology and the like. I’ve dealt with longtails before, and yet none – magical or not – has lived past the typical span of life for one.” The rat began to struggle in her suddenly iron-tight grip. “This is no _roddan_ ,” she concluded.

“Scabbers _is_ a rat,” protested Ron, face contorting with worry. He reached for the rat, but Hattie evaded his grasp. “Hey – give him back!”

“Anything off the trolley, dearies?” asked the trolley lady, who had just opened the door. Hattie forewent the trolley in favor of meeting the witch eye-to-eye.

“I have a question, ma’am,” she said. The witch nodded for her to continue. “Who might I refer to if I suspect this longtail,” she held the harassed rodent up, “was in fact an Animagus?”

The rat’s teeth sunk into her finger.

“Oh, dearie, you’re bleeding –,”

“Scabbers!” yelled Ron. “He doesn’t usually bite –,”

“It’s fine,” said Hattie, even as the blood welled and dripped from her hand. She stayed calm. Addressing the witch once again, she told her, “I know an Animagus when I see one. Now, who might be on this train that can help me?” Scabbers stilled in her hold, drawing Hattie’s attention.

In the next instant, both Ron and Draco were screaming, the trolley lady had fallen back, and a man had appeared within the compartment. He had stringy hair and a face of whiskers, and was scampering towards the door. Hattie flicked her wrist, her elder wand falling into her hand. The unknown man collapsed onto the floor of the hallway, knocking over the trolley as he fell spectacularly.

“Trip Jinx,” explained Hattie unnecessarily. “Hello,” she said, stepping on the man’s back, to which he grunted. In a moment’s notice, he was once again a rat – but Hattie was quicker. She stepped on the rat’s tail, eliciting a squeak from the rodent. “I’ll keep him in check,” she said, keeping her eyes on Scabbers. From behind her, Hattie could feel Draco’s and Ron’s gazes.

The commotion had drawn the attention of the other passengers, who were watching from their compartment doors in bewilderment. The trolley lady was being helped to her feet by a young girl, which Hattie spied out the corner of her eye.

“Could someone notify a prefect? Or a teacher, perhaps?” said Hattie. A few students nodded, rushing off. Hattie could hear the rush of breath from Ron, slowly devolving into hyperventilation. “Breathe, Ron,” she said. “Everything’s under control, and thinking too much will make it worse.” Hattie couldn’t see his nod, but felt it nonetheless.

“What’s going on?” said Percival, jogging up to the scene, two other prefects behind him. He took note of Scabbers held under Hattie’s foot, and the fallen trolley. Hattie’s explanation was cut off by Scabbers transformation. The rat-man took off in the bedlam, and Hattie took off after him. He wasn’t very fast in his state, and Hattie once again tackled him. This time, however, she took out her wand and muttered a spell to keep him bound.

The screams were blood curdling. His hands and feet were forced to lay flat – even as thick, iron nails pierced his flesh, fixing him to floor. Blood seeped from his palms and feet. The man sobbed disgustingly, muttering some nonsense.

This was the scene the head boy and girl came upon.

“Good lord,” whispered the head girl.

“Someone owl the Deputy Headmistress!” ordered the head boy. “Don’t –,” he stumbled, noticing the nails embedded in the man’s palms and feet. “Don’t worry,” he continued. “If he escapes and transforms, we can put him in a steel box to keep him from changing and escaping.”

Hattie nodded, eyes never straying from the weeping man.

And did he weep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! The 'Gimme a pin' is supposedly a children's rhyme (i found it on a database of anglo-manx dialect). 
> 
> Moal – Literally slow, but used in the sense of ill (Wikipedia)  
> Roddan - rat (Wikipedia)  
> (If i missed any tell me)
> 
> About the family tree - 
> 
> According to HP wiki, Arthur has two brothers, both unnamed, although one is possibly named Billius. I gave the other brother the name Arcturus after his maternal grandfather, Arcturus Black II. I was originally going to go with Arturus, but i saw a chance with Arcturus and went with it.
> 
> Belivina Burke nee Black had three children: two sons and one daughter. Now, there isn't much known about them, and no names are listed. Euphemia (James' mother) doesn't have a maiden name listed on the wiki, either, so technically she could be from any pureblood line (although its unlikely that she's from the Burke...)  
> I really like the plot device of Charlus/Dorea being Harry's grandparents, but i wanted to stick with canon (well, as close as i can get. We're in headcanon land now). So, it's technically possible that harry/Hattie could be the great-granddaughter of Belvina Black.
> 
> On another note, Hattie refers to rats as longtails because there's a manx superstition about saying 'rat', and therefore a number of alternative names have been used for them: longtail, Iron fella, Joey, Jiggler, Queerfella, Ringie, an r-a-t (a more recent expression). That's what Wikipedia tells me, and y'know what they say, don't trust the internet. Wikipedia is also a site you really shouldn't source if you want to be reputable, but hey! this is fanfiction. (JK, i'll check my facts eventually...)
> 
> Also, everyone gets pranked. 
> 
> ...
> 
> And Peter gets his just deserts.


	4. I am not Myself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s a sorting hat.   
> How utterly unforeseen.

By the time the Hogwarts Express had reached Hogsmeade Station, the Aurors had already assembled. Onlookers, too, were gathered at the station, curious and concerned. Headmaster Albus Dumbledore, dressed in garish robes and wearing a grave expression, stood beside Head Auror Rufus Scrimgeour – who had a similar grim expression – and a gathering of other government officials. Students aboard the train watched from their windows with interest, made to stay within their compartments.

Hattie, despite her cooperation in apprehending the Animagus, had been told to return to her compartment as well. She had decided not to make a fuss over the matter – the aftermath of the situation would likely be boring. She did, however, keep an eye on the interactions between the authorities – the entire scene lit eerily by lamplight.

It seemed, at first, that many of the wizards and witches were surprised by the Animagus’ appearance. This was to be expected, seeing as an unknown wizard was able to stow away on the Hogwarts Express. However, Hattie felt that the surprise which was shown was… different. As though they were in disbelief over the wizard himself, rather than his actions. Regardless, the wizard was taken in to custody, settling matters.

 _“Proceed to make your way safely and orderly off the Hogwarts Express, please. Proceed to make your way safely and orderly off the Hogwarts Express, please,”_ droned the voice over the intercom. Again, it repeated the same, likely recorded, phrase.

Malfoy was saying something under his breath. Hattie didn’t really care to hear it, but when he brushed into her shouldn’t couldn’t help but catch, “… and my father…” Likely, he was threatening something or another. Hattie didn’t even know whom he would be mad at – Hogwarts couldn’t be held responsible for what had happened. And the Animagus’ verdict wouldn’t change to suit little Malfoy’s needs.

“Shut it, Malfoy,” grumbled Ron, aptly conveying Hattie’s thoughts. The redhead scrubbed his face, looking for all he could world-weary. Draco squawked uncouthly.

“Why, my father –!”

“Your father this, your father that! I’m sick of hearing you whine about your dad,” snapped Ron, drawing a few glances, which were promptly dissuaded by Ron’s glare. He returned his attention to Draco. “If you have something to say, say it yourself! If you have a problem, take care of it yourself. If you need to think, _think for yourself!_ ”

Draco, against all preconceptions, kept his mouth shut. He did not appear mad or irritated, as one might have expected, but instead stunned. He opened his mouth, eyes still blown wide, then decisively closed it, a pensive expression falling across his face. He was quiet after that.

“Firs’ years,” boomed a voice. A large man appeared in Hattie’s view, standing at a good ten feet or more. His face was scruffy, and had a beard which covered a good portion of his mouth that went down to his chest. Hattie noted the features as a Giant’s, but likely only half or quarter. “This way!” he yelled again, guiding the _scutch_ of eleven-year-olds.

They were led down a dank and narrow pathway which opened up to a large, inky lake front, dotted with boats by the shore. Gasps sounded, and the first years looked over scenery with unrestrained awe. The stars brightened the night sky, reflecting off the black waters, creating a scene unimaginable. A castle towered in the distance, humongous and gorgeous all at once.

The first years bounded down to the boats, a few tripping on the way, as the hulking man called out, “No more’n four to a boat! An’ watch yer step – the mud is slippery.” One boy, with short blonde hair and chubby cheeks, took overly-cautious steps, yet ended up tripping anyway. The part-giant caught him in his descent, one large hand grasped firmly on the boy’s shoulder. “Careful, now,” he said.

Hattie found a nearby boat and dropped into it, uncaring of whom she was with. Draco, frazzled, ended up having to share a cramped space with Ron, who looked red in the face. The boy from earlier, who had tripped despite his caution, found his way into Hattie’s boat, paling when it rocked.

“D’you think these can sink?” he asked, tremulously. The boy next to him, who had dark skin and darker hair, didn’t spare him a glance. The blonde boy deflated.

Next to Hattie, the curly haired witch from before – Hermione? – piped up, “I don’t think so. There’s probably a reason there’s only four to a boat allowed, though.” This did not placate the boy. Hermione didn’t seem to take notice, or ignored him. “ _Hogwarts: A History_ stated that –,”

“Hermione, right?” cut in Hattie. She had a feeling the girl could talk for hours if given the chance. Her – brown, nice and warm – eyes narrowed.

“That’s right,” she said. “You do know it’s rude to interrupt people – I, excuse me, I don’t know your name.”

Hattie stuck out her hand. “Hattie Tramman,” she told her, and the girl eyed the palm wearily before taking it and shaking. Under the dark-skinned boy’s breath, Hattie heard him mutter something that sounded suspiciously like ‘mudblood’.

“Everyone in?” called the part-Giant. “Good. FORWARD!” The boats quivered, rocked, and then began to drift away from the shore. The blonde boy’s face had once again gone white, although now it looked almost green with nausea. His features appeared vaguely familiar, and Hattie studied him closer. Ah, she realized, the Longbottom Heir. And if she wasn’t mistaken, the other was –

“My apologies.” Hattie ducked her head, addressing the two boys. Hermione looked to her with confusion, while two other sets of eyes fell on her with mixed emotions. “Merry Meet, Heir Longbottom, Heir Zabini. With how dark it is out here, I nearly didn’t recognize you both. However, Heir Longbottom, you have your grandmother’s nose and… yes, your mother’s eyes.” He looked to her with surprise, sadness, and a touch of fear. Hattie smiled, shaking her head. She wouldn’t say anything.

Hermione’s nose wrinkled. “You’re a pureblood?” she asked, then scoffed. “Of course. You have the manners of one, interrupting me as you did.” How stubborn, and fiery, too. Hattie liked that.

Smiling politely, Hattie told her, “I only stopped you from continuing because I noticed that you may not be the most sensitive to others’ emotions. Which is not meant to be offensive, but I thought perhaps Heir Longbottom could use some positive reinforcement instead of statistics that might worry him further.” The Longbottom boy – Neville, she recalled, Neville – whimpered. “You needn’t worry,” she told him. “These boats are magical, and as long as you keep close to the center you’ll be fine.”

Hermione was indignant towards Hattie’s words, and didn’t realize her folly as she told Neville, “And there’s the Giant Squid which lives at the bottom of the lake. It’ll get you out if you fall in.”

“Giant Squid?” squeaked Neville. “Oh no, oh no…”

Hermione, confused by his reaction, whispered to Hattie, “What did I say wrong?”

“Well, the idea of a gigantic, intelligent monster living under the waters which were floating across isn’t the most relieving of information.” Zabini snorted. Hermione, however, looked to Neville with ill-concealed pity.

“I didn’t mean to scare you, Neville,” said Hermione, her hand resting on Neville’s shoulder. “I – uh – guess I really am no-good with people,” she admitted.

“It – it’s alright, Hermione. And thank you, Tramman,” he nodded to Hattie, the gratefulness clear in his eyes.

“How touching,” drawled Zabini – whom Hattie could not recall the name of – was it Blaire? No, that’s a girl’s name… ah, Blaise. That was his name: Blaise Zabini.  

“Indeed,” said Hattie, eyes hooding. Zabini looked to her with a narrowed gaze. “How is Elvira?” His eyebrows shot up.

“She is doing fine,” he said, after a moment’s pause.

“That’s good,” concluded Hattie, turning away. She would leave Blaise to stew on that conversation for a while.

Hogwarts came into view just as she did so. It was a sight to behold, windows gleaming with candle light, and spires reaching high into the night sky. The base of the castle seemed to almost hang off the edge of the cliff, but nonetheless stood proudly and sturdily.

“Amazing,” breathed Hermione. “Did you know, _Hogwarts: A History_ says that –,” she cut off mid-sentence, blushing, her face falling as she turned away. Hattie placed a hand on her leg.

“It’s alright to talk about what interests you, Hermione,” she told her. “You should just be more aware of the feelings of those around you.” Hermione turned around to look at her, eyes wide and pleading and just like a doe’s – “I’d be more than happy to hear what you had to say,” smiled Hattie.

“I – I – yes, of course!” she stuttered, face beaming red. Hattie swore she could feel the eyes of Neville and Blaise on her. “According to _Hogwarts: A History_ , the Great Hall’s ceiling is charmed to resemble the sky outside. I think… I think it must be very beautiful right now,” she concluded softly. Hattie found it strangely endearing.  

“I’m sure it is,” she replied, staring off into the starlit sky.

Reaching a low hanging cliff, the part-Giant warned, “Heads down!” to which each of the students complied. Hattie found herself wondering who this unfamiliar man was.

“Do any of you know his name?” asked Hattie, looking to each of them in turns. Blaise did not respond, and Hermione shook her head, however Neville nodded meekly.

“His name’s Hagrid – uh, Rubeus Hagrid. He’s the Keeper of Keys and Grounds for Hogwarts,” he said, but sounded more as though he were reciting another’s words. Hattie nodded in acknowledgement, pondering over the new information.

They reached the harbor, scrambling from the boats to touch dry land. Hattie stayed back, watching calmly from her position on the boat. Neville was the first to get out, and it was to his luck that he did, for with a cry of “Trevor!” he picked up his toad, a shaky but relieved smile lighting up his face.

“I’m glad for him,” whispered Hermione to Hattie, turning back to look at her. Hermione had been the third to get out of the boat, following just after Blaise. She held out her hand, an anxious look crossing her face. “Here,” she said, steeling herself.

Hattie took her hand, and found that it was slightly clammy, but soft like Hattie’s. _“Gura mie ayd,”_ she murmured, hoisting herself from the boat and onto the gravel. Hermione looked to her questioningly. “Thank you,” said Hattie. “It means thank you.”

“Oh,” said Hermione. Her mouth open and closed, and she blinked. “You’re – you’re welcome.”

From further ahead, Ron called back, “C’mon Hattie! You’re gonna get left behind.” It seemed that the others had already started to take a passage through the rocks, leaving Hermione and Hattie alone at the dock. They shared a glance, then sprinted to catch up.

When they reached the group, which hadn’t gone far, they met a stone staircase. “Jus’ up ‘ere,” Hagrid told them. Once they had ascended, they all crowd around a great, Oak door. Hagrid came up from behind them, knocking his fist against the wood. The door was opened by a witch in green robes, her hair pulled back tightly in a bun, not a strand out of place. Hattie looked to her glasses, her stern face, and recognized her at once as Deputy Headmistress Minerva McGonagall.

She ushered them inside. The door swung shut as the last of the first years joined them in the hall. The entrance hall itself was more than big enough for them to gather in, with its high reaching ceiling and endless, marble staircase. What appeared to be hundreds, maybe thousands, of torches lit the hall, casting a warm glow across the stones.

Just ahead, behind a doorway to their right, a large group of voices could be heard. While others shifted with nerves, Hattie straightened in excitement. This was making out to be a worthwhile decision.

“Welcome to Hogwarts,” began McGonagall, grabbing the attention of the congregated students. Hattie ignored the rest of her speech, uncaring. She knew that they had to be sorted first, and what the houses were, and what was expected of them. She turned to Hermione.

“What house are you expecting?” whispered Hattie. “You seem like a Ravenclaw or Gryffindor.” She had book smarts and intelligence in spades, but the hardheadedness and courage of a Gryffindor. Hermione, in response, sent her a dark glance.

“Professor McGonagall is talking, Hattie. It’s rude to talk over her.” Nonetheless she answered, “Gryffindor. Although, Ravenclaw doesn’t sound too bad.” Her determined expression did not falter. Hattie hummed.

Professor McGonagall left the parting words to ‘smarten themselves up’. Hattie needn’t do any such thing, finding her robes and undershirt to be impeccable. Ron, however, was scrubbing at the smudge on his nose and Neville was fumbling with his robe fastenings. Hermione sighed, reaching to help Neville with his predicament. Meanwhile, Draco had spotted Hattie and was making his way over.

“Hattie,” he greeted, Crabbe and Goyle flanking behind him. Hattie nodded in return, expression flat. “Is something the matter?” asked Draco.

“No,” replied Hattie. “Just thinking. Are you aiming for Slytherin?” He was, more than likely. It was Malfoy tradition, after all. But for a moment, Hattie thought she saw hesitancy. He opened his mouth to answer, but was interrupted by a jumble of screams. Silver-white figures swept past the group of unsuspecting first years. Hattie snorted, recognizing them as Hogwarts’ ghosts. They pushed past the astonished, and in some cases, terrified children without so much as a glance, lost in their conversation.

One or two looked at Hattie appraisingly, but the spectacle was cut short by Professor McGonagall’s arrival. “Move along,” she urged. “The Sorting is beginning.”

The Great Hall was just as spectacular and beautiful as the rest of Hogwarts. As Hermione had earlier said, the ceiling mimicked the sky outside with astounding accuracy. Hattie could feel the girl’s smile, warm and… inexplicably somber. Nudging her with her elbow, Hattie quirked an eyebrow at the girl. Hermione blushed, shaking her head. This time her grin was wide and bright. The flaring torches were almost as radiant as her smile, but not quite.

At the very front of the Hall, a stool was set out, and a tattered, antiquated hat sat upon it. Its seams split apart, opening in a wide smirk. “Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,” it sang, and Hattie fought off an incredulous bark of laughter. It continued in the same manner, singing out the traits of the houses and whatnot. How ridiculous, thought Hattie. How utterly amusing. Ron’s face in particular was a sight to see. And he had thought the test would be Trolls. Shouldn’t he have learned by now not to trust his brothers?

“Abbott, Hannah!” called McGonagall, and oh! – they were starting. Hattie bounced on her heels, uncharacteristically excited. This, _this_ was going to be a bombshell she couldn’t wait for to drop. If things went as planned – which they most certainly would – this would be one more piece to the puzzle, an inkling of what the bigger picture was. It would be a push in the right direction for the _Bumbee_. Well, more of a shove, but who cared about the specifics?

“Granger, Hermione!”

Hermione raced up to McGonagall, all but stuffing the hat on her head. A few moments later, the hat called out, “GRYFFINDOR!” to which the table in red and gold cheered. Hermione beamed, sending a glance at Hattie. Hattie gave her a nod. With that, the bushy haired girl ran off to her table, but only after handing back the hat.

Hattie looked around, searching for someone. Ah, there he was. “Neville!” she whispered. The boy jumped, head swiveling side to side. “Over here, Neville,” she grinned. Neville spotted her, sighing in relief.

“Hattie,” he said.

Nodding her head towards the hat, Hattie asked him, “What traits do you value?” He looked surprised.

“Value?” he repeated. His brows furrowed in concentration. “I guess… I guess I like nice people.” Neville’s eyes widened and his ears went red. “I m-mean,” he stuttered. “Hermione helped me look for Trevor, and you tried to comfort me when I got scared on the boat…” Hattie nodded, listening. “So, I guess I value kindness a-and… like what you did for Hermione. You encouraged her, made her happy.”

Hattie’s head fell forward a touch. “And what would you say you are, Neville?”

“Huh?”

“Are you chivalrous? Kind? Loyal?” If she could make this work, it would be one less obstruction in her way. Hattie wasn’t worried about Hermione; she had her wrapped around her finger.

Neville drooped, shuffling his feet. “I’m… I’m not really much…”

“You need self-confidence,” said Hattie, resting a hand on his shoulder. Neville looked up at her with wide, imploring eyes. “But maybe,” she said, drawing it out, “Maybe you need to learn to accept yourself, first. Find who you are, and who you really want to be.” If another boy was listening in, Hattie did not pay it any mind.

“Longbottom, Neville!”

He nodded to her, pensive. When he sat on the stool, and the hat dropped on his head, Hattie watched on interestedly. A few minutes passed, and the hat grumbled quite a few times, but it did call out his house, in the end.

The brim opened up, and with a wide grin, it shouted, “HUFFLEPUFF!”

Hattie clapped along with the Hufflepuff table, sending Neville an encouraging smile as he shuffled to where his housemates sat, forgetting to give back the hat. This earned him a few hearty laughs from all around, and he burned with shame. He hurried back to hand it over, then slunk to his house table. From what Hattie could see, an older boy patted Neville’s shoulder, telling him something that had the meek boy loosening up.

Her plan had been successful. With Neville in Hufflepuff, he would be able to hone his loyalty, something that could greatly benefit her. It would also keep from becoming the chivalrous, brave Gryffindor that Hattie had seen him becoming. Gryffindor would have given him backbone, yes, but it would also give him a black and white view of things, which Hattie would not have. Neville could gain self-confidence through finding himself, not building a new him.

“Malfoy, Draco!” was the next name that drew her attention.

Surprisingly, the hat did not immediately announce Slytherin. Draco sat under the sorting hat for a good two minutes, unease painting his features. At one point, panic struck him, and his hands gripped the edges of stool to point that his knuckles turned white. However, the tension eased from him a moment after, and in that instant the brim of the hat opened up and cried for all to hear, “RAVENCLAW!”

Clapping began, unsteady and hesitant. Hattie saw the stricken expression that flitted across Draco’s face, despite him covering it up with a cool façade not a moment later. Therefore, she clapped louder and more fervently than any of the Ravenclaws had. This opened up a venue for more raucous applause. Draco sent her an appreciative glance.

Sparing a look at Ron, who appeared shocked, and perhaps a bit pleased, Hattie grinned. The ginger gulped, sending her what he likely thought was a grin of his own. It was not. A few more names were called, then, ending on a “Perks, Sally-Anne!”

It would likely be her turn next. Others realized as much, and a few mutterings could be heard. Hattie gathered herself.

“Peverell, Hattie!” called Professor McGonagall, disappointing the masses. Hattie felt three sets of eyes fall on her. Curious, she thought.

Headmaster Dumbledore, seated at the very front, turned ashen. His fingers twitched around his wand. He watched Hattie as she made her way to the front, expression untellable. Plopping onto the stool, Hattie noticed that the _lhiam-lhiat_ was also staring at her, along with a Professor wearing a purple turban. Interesting.

The hat dropped onto her head, obstructing her view. “What have we here?” it said. “Hmm,” hummed the Sorting Hat. “Difficult. Very difficult. Plenty of courage and a will to do what you must, I see. Not a bad mind either. There's talent, my goodness, yes – and a strong thirst to prove yourself, not to others, but to yourself – now that’s interesting… So where shall I put you?”

“Ravenclaw, please,” requested Hattie. Ravenclaws were both clever and creative – they would serve well under her thumb. “As you can see, I am quite intelligent.”

“There’s no doubt about that,” remarked the hat. Hattie’s fingers twitched. “That’s quite the cunning plan you have there. To integrate yourself among the Ravens, garner their respect and loyalty. You want to use them for your own gain.”

Hattie smirked. “Creativity is ingenuity. I could use that in my people.”

“I see,” said the hat. “Then it’s settled. You’d be best off in –,”

“SLYTHERIN!”

Hattie inwardly sighed, already having expected as much. There was applause from the Slytherin table, to which Hattie headed towards. She noticed with amusement that Draco was watching her wide-eyed, but also resigned. Ron, from what she could see, was gaping – unsurprising. Hattie noted that Hermione also had her jaw dropped unseemly, while the twins looked put out. Neville was staggered, and a little pallid, but more curious than anything. How unexpected. Perhaps she had already earned his loyalty. Food for thought, that.

The next name was most certainly not ‘Potter, Henrietta’ which caused a good bit of confusion. Hattie grinned at that – which garnered Headmaster Dumbledore’s attention. He fixated her with his twinkling, blue eyes, and Hattie’s head tipped forward. Her own eyes hooded as she sent a sly smile his way.

The last name was called. “Zabini, Blaise!” was sorted into Slytherin, and with that, Headmaster Dumbledore stood, bringing the tumult that had arose to an end.

“Students!” he announced, blanketing the Great Hall in silence. “There is no need for your concern.” Hattie snorted softly. “Miss Henrietta Potter is indeed here at Hogwarts,” he said, and goodness, what was this man doing? “She had decided to take on a different name while attending. If she wishes for you to know her identity, then she will inform you personally. It is her business, after all.”

Hattie shouldn’t have been shocked, and she wasn’t for that matter, but Dumbledore had to know what he was doing. By telling them this, he was giving them incentive to question their peers. It would make good chaos, to have paranoia rampant in the school; but Hattie didn’t want that, as entertaining as it would be. Too many people already knew, and the _skeet_ would only harm her in the long run.

Raising her hand, Hattie smiled demurely. “Right here,” she publicized, drawing the attention of the Great Hall. “Peverell is a family name I’ve inherited. I didn’t mean to cause a commotion.” This garnered a few whispers, but in the end, it was Dumbledore who spoke.

“And there we have it,” he said. “Now, I won’t keep you much longer. Just a few words: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!” A pause. “Thank you!”

Headmaster Dumbledore returned to his seat, and the students cheered and clapped. Food appeared along the dinnerware, and talk erupted from the four tables. Hattie nabbed a few different foods for herself, ignoring the looks of her housemates.

“You’re Potter then?” asked a girl, Pansy Parkinson. She was pretty, with straight dark hair and arched eyebrows. Her nose and mouth made her the look of a pug, however. Hattie wiped her mouth with a kerchief.

“Merry Meet, Miss Parkinson,” she greeted properly, despite Pansy’s disrespect. The girl appeared taken aback. “And yes, I am Henrietta Potter; though I go by Hattie Peverell or Lady Potter.”

“Lady Potter?” asked one of the older students. From the corner of her vision, Hattie could see Blaise watching her.

Hattie dipped her head. “Indeed. I’ve taken up the mantle as Lady Potter.”

“That’s not possible,” said someone. Greengrass? Yes, it was. “You would have to be of age,” she continued, brow furrowed. Hattie smiled infuriatingly.

“Perhaps I am,” she said. Pansy huffed, returning to her food. She probably thought that Hattie was having her over. Not that she was. Hattie had the rings to prove it, but watching the girl get miffed was amusing. “Oh, that’s right,” she said, blinking. “Does anyone know where Ronald Weasley was sorted? I was preoccupied at the time.”

“Gryffindor, obviously,” replied a sketchy boy. He had thin, sandy hair and pinched features. “All the Weasleys go to Gryffindor. I’m Nott, by the way. Theodore Nott.” Hattie shook his hand from across the table.

“Hattie Peverell,” she replied.

“I heard,” he said, matter-of-factly. Then, curiously, “Peverell sounds familiar. I thought it went extinct in the male line?”

“It did,” said Hattie. “The Potter’s are descended from Ignotus Peverell through Iolanth Potter nee Peverell. I met the requirements needed to acquire the name and title.”

“And what are those requirements?” asked Greengrass. “I’m Daphne,” she said, nodding to Hattie.

“This and that,” Hattie answered vaguely. The conversation tapered off as they ate. Hattie glanced to the Gryffindor table and caught Ron’s eye. He seemed ready to turn away, but Hattie smiled at him before he could. Ron smiled back, strained, but nonetheless did. Hermione waved to Hattie, and Hattie nodded to her, grinning. Neville was preoccupied with an ongoing conversation with the older Hufflepuff boy from earlier.

Draco, despite first being estranged, had the Ravenclaws quickly warming up to him, somehow. Hattie felt as though he could really grow in the environment Ravenclaw offered.

The silence between the Slytherin first years was eventually broken by Blaise.

“So, Peverell –,”

“Hattie is fine,” she interjected.

“Hattie, then,” amended Blaise. “How do you know my mother? On first name basis, no less.” This caught the attention of quite a few Slytherins – first years and older.

“The Black Widow?” said Pansy. “You’re acquaintances with her?” she asked Hattie, disbelieving.

“Oh, yes,” said Hattie, feeling a wave of mischief coming on. “We’re especially close. Elvira, Arachne, and I all meet together on new moons to trade _skeeal._ ” Those were some of her favorite outings. Elvira always had the most interesting tales of murder and deceit.

Pansy paled, and seemed ready to deny Hattie’s claim, but was stopped by Blaise.

“Arachne?” he said, looking alarmed. “On the new moons? Mother told me that she met with Arachne and Euclid on those nights, and nobody else.”

“Well, I must be one or the other, then,” said Hattie, “Because I am most certainly not your mother. Seeing as I mentioned Arachne being there along with Elvira, that leaves only one option.”

Pansy’s mouth snapped shut. “Are you saying you are Euclid?” she asked, eyes narrowing. “That’s –,”

“Entirely correct,” finished Hattie. “Oh! Dessert,” she exclaimed, reaching across the table, nabbing a treacle tart. “I absolutely adore these. They’re the best in.” This received a few questioning glances.

“Raving,” muttered one of their year-mates. Hattie’s eyes hooded, a crooked smile finding its way on her lips. They would find very soon just how ‘mad’ she was.

A ghost saddled up next to Hattie, sitting in the seat to her left. Hattie looked to him curiously, and spied the splattering of silver blood along his front, and from what she could tell, was not just his own. The man’s face was gaunt and weathered, his features grim in the flickering candlelight. Hattie quirked an eyebrow at him, but bowed her head nonetheless. The ghost did not respond, still continuing his appraisal.

“That’s the Bloody Baron,” said a voice from down the table. “He doesn’t talk much, but you should still be respectful.”

Hattie’s head tilted as she pondered. In the end, she decided to greet him.

“ _Feasgar math_ ,” said Hattie. “I do hope you don’t intend to stare at me for the rest of the feast.” He didn’t respond, but she knew she had caught his attention. “My name – ah, currently – is Hattie Peverell. I suppose we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.” His eyes met hers – _dark, dark, dark_ – and he nodded once, approving. The Bloody Baron then rose from his seat and departed.

“ _Slàn leat, Slàn leibh!_ ” called Hattie, to which the ghost turned back.

“ _Oíche mhaith_ ,” he returned.

Hattie paused, then cursed. “Irish, not Scottish,” she muttered to herself. “I think I was off a good few centuries, too…”

Safe to say, Hattie had confused a whole lot of people that night.

(She enjoyed it thoroughly.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Skeet – News, gossip, and also to take a look (take a skeet) at something. Direct usage of Manx word "skeet" or "steet".   
> Skeeal – tr. story, or news. (Manx)  
> Feasgar math - Good afternoon/evening (Scots Gaelic)  
> Slàn leat, Slàn leibh - Goodbye (Scots Gaelic)  
> Oíche mhaith - Good night (Irish)
> 
> Not sure how to feel about this chapter. I've had writer's block all this week and my depression has been making things difficult. Yesterday i was able to break through and write a whole chapter. I'm feeling better today so that's a plus, too. I'm wondering whether the last part of this chapter was necessary...
> 
> I wanted Hattie to attempt greeting the Bloody Baron in his native language as a show of amiability, but she assumed he was Scottish (Hogwarts is in Scotland). The thing is, the time period the Bloody Baron was from was the 11th century, and during that time Scotland was speaking middle Irish, having just evolved from old Irish. I couldn't find any sources on how the vocabulary differed then, so i decided to just go with modern Irish/Scottish. Hence why Hattie mentions the "few centuries off"; the Bloody Baron is old.
> 
> There isn't much info on the Bloody Baron so for the heck of it i decided to make him Irish. I thought about just having the entire conversation in Latin as it's a language most magicals would know (the older ones at least, or purebloods) but that wouldn't be what i, and Hattie, were going for. As i said earlier, it was supposed to be a gesture of thoughtfulness when she addressed him in his native language. I'll fix it up in the future, as i feel i could have wrote it a lot better than i did. Not now, though...
> 
> I'm loving all the comments, btw - they make me so happy <3


	5. To Come and Spoil the Fun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The poison on my lips…

Headmaster Dumbledore’s warning had stuck with Hattie. “…the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death,” he had said. It was one of the last things he had touched on in his parting speech, just after the usual warning of staying out of the Forbidden Forest and news on Quidditch tryouts. It had been so innocuous, the way he had said it, and many students had laughed in response.

Hattie knew, despite his flippant way of addressing it, that the threat was very real. She also knew that he had done it that way on purpose. Who tells a group of – some very curious and brash, to the point of almost no self-preservation – students, no, children, that a place is out of bounds for a very suspicious reason?

He was goading someone to investigate it. There would likely be some within the week who would attempt to, from the looks of some of those Gryffindors. Hattie felt, however, that this was not his only goal. No, he wasn’t baiting just students, but something, or someone, greater.

Hattie was curious, damn it.

And she also had an idea of who the _Bumbee_ was trying to trap.

However, regardless of her curiosity, Hattie did not go searching for the third-floor corridor. No, her ending up near it had nothing to do with her suspicions. She had no time to, after all, with having to find and get to class. Hogwarts was entirely too big, with more rooms than one could count in their lifetime and enough staircases to die of exhaustion.

The fact that the castle was sentient did not help. Stairwells would move, some only at certain times and others at random. There were trick steps, which could hold one’s foot (or leg) hostage for an unknown amount of time. Hidden passages were still being discovered, and goodness, the dungeons were another matter entirely. So, it wasn’t much a surprise that Hattie ended up lost – even if it was a one-time deal.

“I’ll lock you in the dungeons, I swear to it,” the caretaker – and wasn’t that odd? Didn’t Hogwarts have house elves? – Filch had snarled at her. Thankfully, Professor Quirrell had been passing by – oddly enough – and had saved Hattie from further hackling.

“That man is unsuited to be around children,” remarked Hattie, casting furtive glances at her professor. The man was weird, and not in the way that witches or wizards typically were. His turban smelt profusely of garlic, which seemed to cover a different smell – one of death and decay. Hattie could recognize it any day, being how often she smelt it in her trade. He was always skittering about, appearing frightened of his shadow. His stutter was horrid, too.

“I a-agree, M-Miss P-P-Peverell,” he replied, and goodness, that stutter was too much. Way too much.

Hattie tilted her head. “Professor Quirrell, do you not teach Defense Against the Dark Arts?”

“I – I do,” he answered.

“Ah,” said Hattie. “Then you must know some about the Dark Arts, yes?”

The man paused, then replied, “I – I do, b-but i-it’s not so-something that a g-girl as y-young as y-you should b-be learning a-about.” Hattie disagreed, but would listen to what he had to say. “Th-Th-The D-Dark Arts are centered around k-killing a-and harming others. C-Controlling them. They are f-for self-gain; a m-magic that c-corrupts the s-soul.”

Corrupts the soul. What an interesting way of putting it.

“Blood magic can be used to protect, did you know?” she asked, meeting Professor Quirrell’s eyes. He twitched. “It’s illegal because it’s typically thought that another’s blood is used. However,” Hattie’s eyes hooded, “one’s own blood can be used. It can be used for all sorts of nefarious acts, but it can also be used to… let’s say, save the life of another. Sacrificial protection. It’s an interesting branch of magic.”

Hattie felt a warmth brush against her.

“I – I see,” said Professor Quirrell. “But i-it’s still a D-Dark magic.”

“And what does that mean, exactly? It is dark, but does that make it unusable? Self-gain isn’t always a terrible thing, and sometimes killing is necessary. The Killing Curse is far more merciful than other methods; it kills without suffering or prolonging. _Avada Kedavra_ , ‘let the thing be destroyed’.” A sensation washed over her, inconspicuous and warm. “I wonder whether the intent behind it determines what is ‘destroyed’. What _does_ the spell destroy? When one uses the Killing Curse, their intent is to kill. Does this destroy the person? What is the person? Is it the soul, the mind?”

“T-Those are v-very interesting q-questions, M-Miss Peverell,” he said, still maintaining eye contact. “But d-don’t you think those are v-very d-dangerous s-subjects?” They were, but that made them all the more exciting.

“Dangerous but beautiful,” said Hattie, and yes, she could feel it now – a flame, increasing in intensity, crackling and consuming. A pyre to match Hattie’s own. “Like a deadly snake,” she finished. “I still think that the intent behind the magic is the deciding factor.” The Unforgivables were unblockable, and therefore ‘unforgivable’. Hattie could accept the reasoning behind prohibited the use of those, but other dark arts? Ritual magic, Blood magic, even Necromancy could be used without the harming of another.

Professor Quirrell seemed to read her thoughts. Maybe he did. Hattie wasn’t keeping these thoughts behind her Occlumency barriers. She wanted him to see them, not because she was reckless, or trusting, or…

He left.

And Hattie _saw_.

_“Ta'n aghaue veg shuyr da'n aghaue vooar,”_ she whispered to his retreating back.

* * *

“Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts,” began Professor McGonagall. Transfiguration was one of the seven core classes that Hattie had to take as a first year, the rest being Herbology, Charms, Potions, DADA, History of Magic, and Astronomy. “Anyone messing around in my class will leave and not come back. You have been warned,” concluded Professor McGonagall.

Minerva McGonagall was, as Hattie had come to know, a stern woman. Her black hair was always – always – kept in an immaculate bun, and her glasses never appeared smudged. She wore green robes despite being the Head of Gryffindor, and not once had Hattie seen them creased or crinkled. The woman stood with her back ramrod straight and her eyes facing forward, daring any of her students to act out. Hattie doubted there would be any ‘messing around’ in this class.

“Transfiguration allows for the wielder to change the form and appearance of an object. Take this, for example,” she said, brandishing her wand. Professor McGonagall flicked her wand at her desk, intoning the proper spell, transfiguring it into a pig. The animal grunted, hoof pawing the floor. With another flick of her wand, the pig was once again a desk.

“Pay close attention to the minute details.” She put her hand on the hardwood. “It is neither pink nor similar to the pig in appearance.” Her knuckles rapped against the surface. “It is solid wood. The pig, as you saw, was neither the color of mahogany – as my desk is – nor showing any of the attributes of wood. Transfiguration is a complicated subject that demands attention to detail. You must envision the final product completely.”

Hattie thought her lesson was fairly well done. There was quite a lot of note taking for the first part, but when the practical portion rolled around it became much more invigorating. Professor McGonagall gave them each a matchstick and instructed them to transfigure it into a needle. An adequate first experiment for first years.

“Hattie,” whispered Neville, who was sitting beside her. She had joint class with the Hufflepuffs for both Transfiguration and Herbology on Monday. “Am I doing this right?” He demonstrated for her, but his matchstick remained a matchstick. Hattie hummed, asking him to repeat the process again. His matchstick remained a matchstick.

“What are you imagining when you do it?” she asked. Imagery was important in Transfiguration, along with willpower.

“Um,” said Neville, looking down at his wand. “A needle, I guess. Like the ones my Grandmother has around the house. Is that not right?”

“No, that’s perfect,” said Hattie. “And your willpower, your magic – how does it feel?” Neville was doing everything right – his pronunciation was as good as he would be able to get it, and his wand movements were only a little shaky. Nothing that wouldn’t stop him from turning it silver.

“I don’t know,” he answered. “I’ve never really felt it before, except for that one time I fell out a window and bounced due to accidental magic. I think I felt it then, but not after that.” Neville’s hand shook. “Do you – do you think I’m no better than a squib?”

“Neville, you wouldn’t have been able to attend Hogwarts if you were a squib, or anywhere near one. No, I think there’s something else wrong; and not with you. Might I take a look at your wand?”

“My wand?” he asked. Glancing briefly down at it, he shrugged. “I guess so. Here,” said Neville, extending the wand to her. Ash, twelve and a quarter inches. Well used. Hattie took it in her grasp, turning it over.

“This wasn’t yours originally, was it? You don’t have to answer that, I can tell. I have some experience with wand crafting. This is Ash, and wands made from Ash are best not gifted or passed down. They won’t work nearly as well for their second master, even if it suits them.” Hattie paused, looking to Neville. “You’re not suited to Ash. You seem more of a… yes, Cherry wood. I would look into getting a new wand, because this one will never bring out the best of your talents.”

“Miss Peverell, Mister Longbottom,” said Professor McGonagall. Hattie turned to her. “Have you two turned your matchsticks into needles?” A squeak came from Neville, who fumbled with his matchstick.

“Professor McGonagall,” said Hattie, garnering her attention. “I think Neville’s wand is not working for him. Would you take a look at his spell work and decide whether it’s him or his wand, please?” The professor’s eyes narrowed behind her glasses, and she nodded sharply.

“Of course,” she said. “It’s my job to judge your spell work.” Hattie left her to it, knowing that the woman would see the same signs she had, if she only looked close enough. Neville was naturally a bit jumpy, and didn’t seem all too powerful at first glance, but he had potential. Professor McGonagall would notice his wand movements and pronunciation were correct, and that’s all she needed to know it wasn’t him.

Hattie’s matchstick, meanwhile, had its sharpened point jabbed into the wood of her desk; its perfect, silver body pointing directly to the ceiling – blade, shoulder, shank and all.

* * *

“In this class, you will learn about both magical and mundane plants,” said Professor Sprout, tugging on a pair of gloves. She was a stout, plump witch with curling grey hair. Her expression was kindly enough, but firm in the way most teachers were. “There’ll be no horsing around in here, as some of these plants are dangerous. Take, for example, the…”

Class was interesting for the most part. Hattie found it easy to drift off at points, and most of what they covered she already knew, but to go through the experience of being taught in a class was something new. She found it vaguely entertaining, if only because it was a change from her normal routine. Transfiguration hadn’t been too demanding, and Herbology was looking to be a laid-back class.

“How is Hufflepuff treating you, Neville?” asked Hattie, once Professor Sprout had concluded what she had to say. Most of the students were inspecting various magical plants under her watchful eye. Hattie poked a snapping toadstool, taking amusement in its vexation.

“It’s nice,” said Neville, content. “Professor Sprout is very kind and our dormitories are cozy. I made a lot of friends, I think…”

“Don’t doubt yourself, Neville,” said Hattie, focused on tormenting the poor toadstool. “A lot of the students sorted in Hufflepuff are generally nice people, save the occasional bad egg. No, not you Neville. You’re a good person, and you deserve friends.” And to gain some self-confidence. Hattie would need him to stop doubting himself – not when he could be doing so much more.

Neville was quiet, watching as Hattie poked the toadstool to the point of it emitting low screeches of frustration. “Thanks, Hattie,” he said eventually.

“What friends have you made?” she queried.

“Um,” said Neville, “There’s Susan and Justin. A-And Hannah Abbott.” Dark splotches of red blossomed along his cheeks. Hattie smiled knowingly.

“I saw you talking with one of the older years at the sorting,” she said, not addressing his sudden stutter nor flush. Hattie remembered the boy from the sorting feast. She hadn’t been able to make out his features too well. Brown, almost blond hair, she thinks. Tall. Fairly attractive.

“Oh,” said Neville. “That was Cedric Diggory. He’s a fourth year and he – well, he got my mind off what happened at the sorting.” He blushed. “That was so embarrassing. I can’t believe I made off with the hat.” Hattie snorted.

“Only you, Neville,” she said fondly. “This Diggory, he looked well-built. Does he do sports?”

“He’s a seeker for the Hufflepuff Quidditch team,” said Neville. “He’s really good at it from what I hear. He spoke a lot about this Slytherin player, Marcus Flint, I think?” Hattie nodded. “Yea, apparently he –,” Neville stopped. “I guess it’s not my business to say.”

“That’s alright,” said Hattie. “It’s good to keep your friends in confidence.” It would serve her well, too, when she had him in her ranks. Neville was going to be great, if she had any say in it.

* * *

Every afternoon there was a free period given to students, seeing as it was a boarding school. The evening of the first Monday, Hattie spent hers reclining on one of the couches in the Slytherin common room. It had been some time since she had sat back and read, and this was the chance for her to do that. And if the book she was reading was noticeably Dark, then who was to call her out?

“I can’t believe Draco went to Ravenclaw,” said Pansy, capturing Blaise’s rook. “He was never the type to read books – well, unless they had to do with Potions or Quidditch – and –!”

“You were sure that he was going to end up in Slytherin,” Blaise finished for her, one hand under his chin as he pondered his next move. “Knight to B5,” he ordered. “That’s why you shouldn’t expect things from people. Humans are contradictory in nature.”

Pansy’s nose scrunched. “But I was _sure_ …” she said, then, “Queen to C6.”

“Well,” said Blaise, rolling his shoulders, “It just goes to show that not everything is predictable. Bishop to G6. Checkmate.”

“What!” screeched Pansy, jumping from her seat, sending it falling backwards. “That’s – bloody hell,” she whispered. “How did you do that?”

“He had you beat two turns ago,” said Hattie, flipping a page.

“You weren’t even watching –,” Pansy was saying, but was cut off by a loud exclamation. “What was that?” she said, looking off towards where the boy’s dormitories could be reached. “Sounded like Flint,” she mused. Her guess was proven correct when the older Slytherin came in, not but a moment later.

“Are any of you good with snakes?” he asked, sounding disgruntled.

“Is that what that package was?” asked someone else, just coming back from what appeared to be the washroom. “I was wondering about that. Also, I’m not letting you keep a venomous snake in our dorm. I still remember that one time –,”

“Shut up,” growled Flint. Bookmarking her text, Hattie leaned over the side of the leather couch. Flint was a sturdily built, lightly tanned boy with short black hair. His teeth were a bit large, and his eyes were a cold grey. Hattie wondered what Cedric saw in him, besides a Quidditch rival.

“I’m fairly good with snakes,” she told him, drawing the attention of both him, Pansy, and Blaise. “What is it you need?” The older boy roved his gaze over her, and Hattie didn’t react outwardly. Perhaps he felt that he was intimidating.

“You think you can handle a Boomslang, Potter?” he asked, sneering. Hattie continued to stare at him disinterestedly. Then, with a slight quirk of the lips, she gave him a polite smile.

“Certainly,” she replied, standing. Hattie smoothed out her skirt, making her way around the couch to Flint’s side. “I suppose you could say I have a way with serpents.” Flint snorted.

“Alright. If you get bit, it’s not my fault. This way,” he said, nudging past her. When Hattie didn’t follow, Flint turned back around, glaring. “Well?” he sniped. Did he think she would do this for free?

“And what will I be getting out of this arrangement?” she asked, head tilting forward. “Surely, you aren’t wanting to leave this deal open-ended?”

“What? No,” he said, quickly. “I’ll… I’ll let you have him. I didn’t even want the snake – it just so happened that I was the only one who could take him. He won’t stop hissing when I try to get close, though, and I need him in the cage, or at least out of my dorm.”

“I’ll do it,” said Hattie, thinking over her options. Boomslangs were small but potent creatures, and the males had beautiful, green scales. “And I would love to have him. It’s been a while since I last had a snake.” This admittance garnered her a strange look from Flint, but he shrugged it off. Hattie followed him to his dorm.

The room itself was close in appearance to her own, with a few choice differences. For one, there was plenty more Quidditch paraphernalia, and boys’ clothes were strewn about a bit. How they could stand to be disorganized, Hattie would never know.

Flint swore. “I left him on my bed, where the packaging is,” he said, just as Blaise and Pansy appeared behind him. There was nothing on the bed besides the ripped-up parchment.

“So, there’s a venomous snake loose in your dorm,” supplied Blaise. “That’s fantastic.”

“Keep your –,” Hattie ignored Flint’s response.

Crouching to her knees, Hattie hissed, _“Oh, precious… come to me…”_ Flint jumped, stepping back. Pansy had gone white in the face, while Blaise was looking around.

“Where is it?” asked Flint, incorrectly assuming it had been the Boomslang hissing. Pansy had taken another step back.

_“Speaker?”_ returned a sibilant voice. An iridescent green head poked out from under a dresser. Flint swore, yet again. The Boomslang slithered from its hiding spot, scenting the air with its tongue. _“You smell of Death,”_ he said. Hattie held out her palm, ignoring the others’ warnings.

“Join me,” grinned Hattie, reveling in the flinches of those behind her. _“I promise you warmth and food. You will have nowhere you cannot go, and nothing you cannot eat. I only ask that you heed my commands.”_ The snake drew closer, letting the tip of its forked tongue touch Hattie’s hand.

_“Master,”_ he hissed, slithering up her arm. Hattie turned to face the others, a wide smile displaying all of her fine-point teeth. The Boomslang was settled around her neck.

“Parselmouth,” whispered Pansy, a hand over her heart.

“I definitely wasn’t expecting that,” laughed Blaise, shakily. Pansy sent him a dark look.

“What happened to ‘you shouldn’t expect things from people’?” pointed out Pansy.

Hattie continued to stroke the head of her snake.

* * *

Professor Flitwick was calling roll. “Peverell, Hattie – oh my!” he squeaked, toppling of his stand made entirely of books. Righting himself, Professor Flitwick brushed his robes, then addressed Hattie. “Miss Peverell,” he said, adjusting his glasses, “is that a Boomslang around your neck?” This prompted a bout of murmurings to plague the class.

“Indeed, it is, Professor,” nodded Hattie, reaching up to stroke the tightly coiled serpent. He wasn’t very big, reaching only just under a yard in length, and felt cool to her skin. “His name is _flashing-stone.”_ The name came out in a jumbled hiss.

Professor Flitwick stuttered out a shaken, “Could you repeat that? I don’t think I quite caught what you said.”

_“Flashing-stone,”_ hissed Hattie. The Hufflepuffs around her cowered away, save for Neville, who looked pale in the face. “It doesn’t translate very well,” she explained. “No matter how I try, I cannot say it in English properly. So, I found the closest relative to it, which is Keraunos. Lightning, is what it means – for how his scales flash before he strikes.”

“I – I see,” said her professor. “I did not know you were a Parselmouth, Miss Peverell,” he said. Hattie only smiled. “However, Boomslangs are highly venomous and I’m afraid –,”

“I apologize for interrupting, sir,” cut in Hattie, “But surely you know that as a Parselmouth, I have complete control over Keraunos? He will not bite anyone or any pet. I can assure you of that.” Unless she wanted him to, of course. Hattie couldn’t promise anything, then.

“Yes, but, you see –,”

Hattie’s smile dropped for an expression of open neutrality. “I believe there is clause which states that any Parselmouth – any, whether they be from Lord Slytherin’s line or not – may keep a snake as their familiar so long as no injuries come about from it. I mean no disrespect, but my choice to keep Keraunos is within the guidelines.” Professor Flitwick blinked, his demeanor changing that of interested curiosity.

“Is that so?” he said. “I have not heard of that before. Would you be amiable to showing it to me after class?” A Ravenclaw’s pursuit for knowledge could be their downfall. She had him in her clutches, now.

“Certainly,” smiled Hattie, head tilting to the side only slightly. “I know of quite a few ancient laws pertaining to Hogwarts as well which you might be interested in.”

Hook, line, and sinker.

* * *

History of Magic was a dreadful class for learning, but wonderful for catching up with Draco. It was one of the few classes the Slytherins shared with Ravenclaw, and Hattie needn’t worry about the teacher, seeing as he was preoccupied with his own voice. His droning, soporific voice. Goodness, couldn’t they simply hire a new teacher?

“Draco,” whispered Hattie, and the blonde jolted. He looked to her, apprehensive. His eyes seem to trail over Keraunos around her neck, and then the Slytherin emblem attached to her robe. “I don’t bite,” she grinned sharply. Draco’s complexion paled further, if possible. “And neither does Keraunos. What’s the matter? Dementor got your tongue?” At hearing that, he choked on his spit.

“Dementor?” repeated Draco, shocked. “Who in the world says that?” His expression was fantastic. All his expressions were, corrected Hattie. Draco was so easily poked fun with.

Showing her teeth, Hattie leaned in closer, replying, “Me, of course.” She then tapped her chin. “That does bring up the question of whether Dementors French kiss or not.” Draco grimaced, to which Hattie snickered. “It’s a very _serious_ question, Draco,” she told him. He quirked an eyebrow.

“You saw the _Prophet_ , then? About Peter Pettigrew’s trial, and Sirius Black’s release?” His voice was purposely kept low enough that only Hattie could hear him. At least he was showing some modicum of discretion. Hattie nodded, to which Draco didn’t immediately reply. A moment after, he continued with, “You do know… that he is your Godfather, don’t you?”

Hattie’s smile dropped. “Yes,” she said. “I do. I also know that he is receiving care for the aftereffects of Azkaban, which may take some time to reverse.” Draco nodded, looking grim. “How is Ravenclaw?” Hattie deviated, sensing his unease. He seemed to perk up a bit.

“I – I was going to go to Slytherin,” he admitted sheepishly. “I was dead-set on it. It’s a Malfoy tradition – or, not anymore, I guess. However, after… well, I had a revelation.” He met Hattie’s eyes resolutely. “I want to be myself. Politics are – they’re not what I enjoy. I know it’s not a good career decision to do what you enjoy rather than something profitable, but I felt – I feel – that I need to find something for myself.”

“Good,” said Hattie. “You wouldn’t have gotten far if you had let your father dictate your life,” she told him, imaging what could have been. Draco would never have learned to make decisions for himself. He would not have formed his own opinions, or grew to be as great as he could be – should be.

Draco nodded. “I think – I think I see that now. Ravenclaw is full of people that are different from what I’m used to. They’re not as open as, say, Gryffindors or Hufflepuffs – but they’re nice.” He looked away. “At first, everyone gave me the cold shoulder. They thought I would be just like my father… and they were right.”

“But are you now?” He paused.

“I don’t know,” answered Draco.

* * *

Severus Snape favored Slytherin house. Severus Snape did not favor Hattie.

“Potter!” he barked, and Hattie smiled politely, not once giving him a clue that his disregard for her preferred name vexed her. This enraged him further. “What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?” sneered Professor Snape, watching her with his dark eyes.

Hattie’s eyes were darker.

“The Draught of Living Death, sir,” she answered, enjoying his little show. His dexterous, pallid fingers clenched around the edge of her desk.

Again, he tried, “Where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?” Oh, he was setting himself up for this one, thought Hattie, grinning wickedly. The fool.

“Why,” she said, teeth gleaming dangerously in the flickering light, a bead of sweat forming on Professor Snape’s brow, “I would find a goat, immobilize it, watch with amusement as it kicked and screamed,” the heat was nigh unbearable in the dungeon, now – “and place my hand atop its underbelly. I would then sink my nails into its flesh, and dive my hand into its innards, ripping out its intestines. Bezoars are often found in the gastrointestinal tract, but they can be found in other places.” Hattie thought she may have heard retching.

“If I could not find any within its intestines, then I would move my hand higher, and rip out its true stomach. Goats have more than one stomach, and that would be the next best place to find a bezoar, as they are made there.” Hattie tilted her head. “If you had wanted a lactobezoar, then I would have needed an infant goat –,”

“That’s enough,” said Professor Snape, pulling away. “And Miss –,”

“Peverell.”

“– Potter,” he sneered, “Detention for interrupting a teacher. As I was saying, I did not ask for a lactobezoar, but a bezoar. If you had opened up a textbook before coming here –,”

“I wouldn’t need to,” said Hattie.

“A week of detention,” he told her, and from Hattie’s peripheral vision, she could spy Hermione giving her a warning look. Hattie winked. “You would then know that a bezoar is taken from the stomach of a goat and is used to counteract most poisons.”

“Seeing as I own a business which sells deceased parts, you would think I might know this already.” Pansy choked, quickly covering up her blunder. A few of the other Slytherins appeared shocked, while many of the Gryffindors were confused. Hattie expected as much.

“A month of detention,” hissed Professor Snape, fists shaking in anger, “for talking back to a teacher, _Potter_.”

“You will call me ‘Miss Peverell’.”

“What’s that, Potter?” he asked, a smirk curling against his lips. “I think I shall call you as I see fit.” No, you will not, thought Hattie.

“Professor Snape,” she murmured, a sly smile winding along her mouth. “You will call me ‘Miss Peverell’.” His glowered at her, opening his mouth to retort, likely with the promise of more detention, but he did not. A cloudy haze settled over his eyes, and his pupils went unfocused. Then, as quick as it came, he was once again glaring balefully at her.

“Miss Peverell,” he said, then paused. His brows furrowed. “Miss Peverell,” Professor Snape tried, yet again, but to no avail. Face turning ashen, he spun around to face the class. “Well?” he said. “Did any of you copy down what I said? Asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Death, and…”

More than one student looked to Hattie with barely-hidden fear in their eyes, and horror etched across their face.

She reveled in it.

* * *

The Gryffindor common room was decked in golds and reds, with a roaring fireplace surrounded by comfy looking chairs and couches. The few students hanging around sent suspicious looks at Hattie, the only Slytherin in the room, but they did not comment. Not her problem.

“Rook to H3,” said Ron, attention focused solely on the wizarding chess board. He was decent at the game, which pleased Hattie. If strategy was something he excelled at, then she would need to keep him in working order. Gryffindors were known to be brash. This could prove to be a trick up his sleeve; not many would expect a hothead to be a strategist.

Hermione, watching from the sidelines, huffed.

“Knight to B4,” ordered Hattie. She gathered her hair in one hand, then proceeded to pull it up. The chess piece followed her orders diligently, landing on B4. There were shifts in anticipation, the bloodlust rising. Ah, war – her favorite pastime.

“Well?” prodded Hermione, becoming impatient. “What did you to Professor Snape?”

“It doesn’t matter what she did, Hermione,” said Ron, scratching his head. “Snape’s a right arse. He deserves all he can get.”

“Ron!” exclaimed Hermione. “He’s a teacher, address him properly!” She turned away. “I agree that he’s biased –,”

“An arse,” said Ron.

“– and I don’t particularly like him either, but deserves respect. You do realize that he became a potion’s master at –,”

“Don’t care,” cut in Ron. Hermione growled, balling her fists at her sides. These two, thought Hattie. “Bishop to – no, darn it – E5.” He sighed. “Your win, Hattie.”

“Good game,” she replied. Ron whistled.

“Man, though, that was tough. You’re pretty good at chess.”

“Thanks. You’re not bad yourself.”

“Well?” repeated Hermione, tapping her foot incessantly. “I’m waiting.” Hattie supposed she could answer her.

“I gave Professor Snape suggestion, and he found the logic behind my reasoning,” Hattie said, enjoying Hermione’s frustration. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, Hermione,” she said, smiling with hers eyes hooded. A blush crept up Hermione’s neck.

“I –!”

“Just let off it, ‘Mione,” said Ron, not noticing her creeping flush. “Snape’s a git, Quirrell is a coward, and Binns tries to bore us to death. It’s just the way of things,” he concluded sagely. How apt, thought Hattie.

Severus Snape was as unfitted to be around children as Filch. He barked orders, was unable to correct mistakes without tearing the student a new one, and was poor at giving instructions. He was, no doubt, a great potioneer, but not so much a teacher. Perhaps, for older students he made a better instructor, but not first years.

Quirinus Quirrell was, as she already concluded, a stuttering mess. It was not just his person, but his entire classroom that smelt of garlic. It was not an adequate learning environment. Professor Quirrell himself was a poor teacher, due to his dreadful speech skills. Hattie did enjoy his class, however, for how he squirmed under her piercing stare. Ah, the entertainment.

Cuthbert Binns was dead. There was no working around that. The man was dead and students were unable to get passed his drudging inflection. Hattie was already familiar with the subject, but if she hadn’t been then she would have relied entirely on the textbook. History of Magic was only good for talking with Draco or working on other projects.

Ron withered under Hermione’s glare. He put his hands up in an effort to ease her ire. It did not.

She turned on Hattie, then, and asked, “And what did you mean by your ‘business’?”

Hattie blinked. “Why, I own Euclid’s Elements.”

* * *

The halls were darkening with the arrival of late evening. It was the end of the first Friday of the first week. Candlelight flickered and flared, and the shadows danced in its uncanny, yellow light. Hattie’s shadow was perfectly still.

In front of her stood Professor Quirrell, looking forward. His shoulders were stiff, and, as always, he wore his turban. The smell of Death was especially strong tonight.

The pyre within him was searing.

_“He smells like master,”_ Keraunos hissed into the shell of Hattie’s ear.

“Quirinus Quirrell,” she addressed. The man did not respond, nor did he turn to face her. His back stayed stock-still, neither his shoulder blades nor any part of him twitching or flinching. He was utterly motionless, devoid of words.

“I think it’s time we speak.”

_(And a fire roared inside of her to meet his own –)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta'n aghaue veg shuyr da'n aghaue vooar.  
> Translation: The little hemlock is a sister to the big hemlock.  
> Meaning: A small sin is a sister to a big one.
> 
> Keraunos is Greek for Thunder/Thunder bolt/Lightning bolt. 
> 
> Some Quirrelmort/Hattie interaction in this chap. Definitely more in the next, and a lot after that. We get a lot in this chapter (I had to fit a whole week of Hogwarts in this... bleh) including, but not limited to, parseltongue, Hattie being Hattie, and Voldie. Also some bonding.
> 
> I wasn't able to fit it in, but Lucius was both shocked and upset by Draco's sorting, but he got over it. He saw the benefit of having his son in Ravenclaw, and that was that. Also, he may or may not be a loving father. That too. 
> 
> Not sure if the potion's scene was too much. Meh. Also, some more wandlore stuff 'cause i'm a nerd for that.
> 
> I am soooooo in love with all your comments! All this attention to my story is giving me the strength to plow on. I've got maybe five (extremely long) chapters left at the most. Hopefully you all enjoy the rest of this series as much as you have this.


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